Broken Mind, Strong Heart
by GallifreyRises13
Summary: As a young Patrick Turner signs up for the Second World War, he is oblivious to the horrors waiting for him. From the shores of Blighty to a battleworn field hospital in Italy, the experiences will change and he will never return as the same man again. (Contains strong language, graphic imagery and strong violence.)
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Signing up**

It was a beautiful early September morning. The streets of Liverpool were bustling as it was Market Day. Stalls lined the cobbles, being erected in any place that was available. Children ran through the stalls with bursts of energy, darting in and out the stalls and being careful not to crash into them.

Cecily Turner was a captivating woman. Time was very kind to her as she never looked the 50 years, she had been alive for. She worked as a secretary to a bank manager in the city but, every Saturday, she loved nothing more than helping out her community by running the fruit and veg. She was a local lass, always thoughtful, polite, who made no enemies. Those she had made were only jealous that she got the lion's share of the beauty pool. Hair soft as silk and dark as chocolate. Her curls fell perfectly around her oval face. She wore a long, baby blue cotton dress with a white bow tucked at her waist, giving the illusion of an hourglass figure. She had men clamouring after her, begging to have her for just one night.

Alas, her heart was taken by another.

Her husband, Arthur, was a surgeon at the Mill Road Hospital. As a young man, he had girls swooning down the wards. Many of them occupied the trolleys and blocked the corridors. Matron was less than happy. Because of the mass hysteria he caused, he opted to move to male surgical in order for some peace and quiet as the girls, lovely as they were, distracted him from his work and he stayed there ever since. He still had the charming, chiselled looks within his rugged face and his hair, once black, was all peppery. He was always seen with a pipe in his hand smoking his treasured tobacco. He too was the golden age of 50 and, like his darling wife, he aged gracefully. They met at a dance in Soho when they were 20, young, carefree, wanting to take the world by the hand.

Jazz erupted through the air like an explosion of life and excitement. It was 2 years before war broke. Streets were alive with music, singing, people having the time of their lives, not knowing what was to come. When the war came, everything changed. The pubs and dance halls no longer had the halcyon of the old days. The men were shipped off to war to fight the good fight, but only a few returned. However, they were shells of the people they used to be. Arthur wanted to join, to fight for King and Country. Fate did not smile upon him. He failed the physical exam due to a defect with his heart.

Looking back, he was thankful for it. In his opinion the war was a pyrrhic victory. So many died for a few acres of land. It wasn't worth the bloodshed. He felt sick to the pit of his stomach when he discovered that underage boys were recruited and never came back. And now it would happen again.

It was announced on the wireless that Britain, along with France, Australia and New Zealand had declared war on Germany and that eligible men under 30 should sign up. Both Arthur and Cecily were fraught with worry. Their only son, Patrick had turned 30 the week before last and they couldn't bear the thought of losing him. Patrick had inherited his parents' looks, making him a hit with the ladies. He was humble, kind and would do anything to help his patients. As a young boy, he was fascinated by the human anatomy and how different illnesses affect people. When he told his parents that he wanted to become a doctor, the pride was radiating off of them. He was very intelligent, so they had no lingering doubts that he would make it. He was every girl's dream. Slicked back black hair, defined features, hazelnut brown eyes. The young lasses of Liverpool had their passions stirred frequently as a result of this.

Arthur had forbidden Patrick from going to the front lines as his mother would be beside herself with fear that he would be facing danger head on. As Patrick had medical credentials, Arthur suggested that he should sign up to the Royal Army Medical Corps, to treat the wounded. Patrick was absolutely delighted. There was no better place for him to put his skills to use. Waving him goodbye as he went to the recruitment station, they both hoped that he would survive this.

…..

A puff of smoke clouded Patrick's view, briefly. He grew tired of just standing around, waiting. He wasn't like his father, smoking a pipe. He preferred the feel of a Henley's cigarette. He could sense that the fellow men around him were getting impatient. Near the front of the line, there was a brawl over some petty matter.

The Sergeant Major ordered them to cease but they still continued, moving it into the centre of the station. Punches were flying thick and fast. One contacted the Sergeant Major's chest, knocking him off his feet. A friend of one of the men had enough of this brutality.

" **Jimmy, will you cut it out, you bastard. You've 'armed the Sergeant Major!"**

The man, who was 6ft 4 and built like a brickhouse, tore Jimmy away from his opponent, who was battered, bloodied and bruised. His nose was out of place, 4 of his teeth were scattered around the cobbles, one of which fell into the sewer drain. His opponent was only 5ft 2, so he had suffered the full brunt of Jimmy's wrath.

The Sergeant Major escaped the fight unscathed so, to dissuade from further brawling, he clacked both men on the head with his stick.

" **Now stop it, both of you! Are you grown men or children? There is no place in the Army for such puerile behaviour!"**

He ordered the officers to place them at the back of the queue.

" **I'm glad that's over. Stupid wankers."**

Patrick turned to see a scruffy looking man wearing a grey, worn coat. He guessed that the man was his age, but slightly younger. His hair was a light brown and dishevelled looking. With eyes as blue as the sky and smooth features, he was quite handsome. Not that Patrick was vaguely interested. His trousers had patches sewn on, making him to resemble a patchwork doll. The shoes were beginning to show signs of age, wear and tear.

" **Have you got a light?"**

" **Of course."**

Patrick took out his lighter and flicked open the cap. The hot flame ignited from the canister and set the man's cigarette alight.

" **Cheers for that."**

" **You're welcome."**

Patrick looked at the gold-plated lighter. It bore his initials; a gift from his father when he turned 18. He always kept it with him in his pocket. It symbolised that he was no longer a boy, but a young man.

" **So, what you here for, then?"**

Patrick smiled. The tones of kindness and warmth shone through the lad's voice. He was very approachable. He was the type that wouldn't say no if someone had asked him to go out for a drink with them.

" **Same as every lad. To do their bit for King and Country."**

" **Aye. We'll show the Jerries' a thing or two."**

Nerves were beginning to show physically in Patrick. His hands started to shake, his heartbeat had become slightly abnormal and his palm were saturated. He remembered to take deep breaths and to remain calm. Curious by nature, he wondered about what adventures would await him in the Medical Corps. No doubt it would be frightfully exciting. He had an obligation to help people, whether here in Blighty or abroad. It was just the way he was.

" **Next!"**

The man in front of Patrick made his way to the desk, where the officer made him stand to attention as practice for the real thing. A lump formed in his throat. The uncertainty of what was in store scared him a little but now wasn't the time for his spine to desert. He had a job to do.

" **So what's your name, then?"**

The man stood to the side of Patrick, who was just finishing his third cigarette.

" **I'm Patrick Turner. What's yours?"**

" **Timothy Hawkins, but friends call me Timmy."**

" **Well, it's nice to meet you, Timothy."**

" **You too."**

" **NEXT!"**

 ****The deafening bellow nearly ruptured Patrick's eardrum. It was a good thing he was at a safe distance otherwise he would have been made deaf. He walked briskly to the desk and stood to attention, even before the officer told him to.

" **Name?"**

" **Patrick Turner."  
"Occupation?"**

" **Doctor."**

The desk-bound officer raised his head and stared at Patrick dead in the eye.

" **A doctor, eh?"**

" **Yes, sir."**

" **May I see your credentials?"**

" **Of course, sir."**

Patrick took out an envelope from inside the breast pocket of his trench coat and gave it to the officer.

The officer thoroughly inspected the documents and seemed satisfied with its content.

" **Very well, Dr Turner. I see that everything is in order. You shall be assigned to Altcar Training Camp for a period of 5 months. After that, you will join the RAMC division working in Italy. Is that understood?"**

" **Yes sir."**

" **Good."**

The officer handed Patrick the King's Shilling and directed him where the other candidates were waiting to be taken to Altcar.

His journey was about to begin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Altcar**

Trees shifted quickly out of view as the army truck trundled along the road. Patrick gazed out the window, surprised of how different the surroundings were, compared to Liverpool. There was lush green fields, bountiful crops and acres of lavender and heather as far as the eye could see.

Inside the truck, the recruits were compacted like sardines in a tin. He felt the air being squeezed out of him. The man next to him was a hefty fellow of big girth. His face was very rotund; a human version of a pig. He was quite traditional as he sported the decades-old beard style of mutton chops. Patrick was amazed that the man was alive, as he thought he would have had a cardiac arrest by now, with the amount of cholesterol constricting the blood flow in his arteries.

 _He would never pass the physical exam._

Patrick glanced at the other men. They all seemed well, physically. All were around his age or older. The lad at the end was smoking a cheeky cigarette, blowing the smoke into the open country air. According to the superior officer, the barracks at the camp had basic facilities and that they had to slept in bunk beds. Patrick chuckled to himself as he thought of the hefty fellow breaking the bed. The ride was less than pleasant as there were potholes or, as the driver called them, craters dispersed all over the tarmac. Patrick was glad that he only had a small breakfast this morning otherwise the floor would be a concoction of colours such as egg yellow, tomato red and baked bean orange.

The truck screeched to a halt, nearly sending Patrick over the passenger seat. The back end was dropped down and the men jumped onto the hard gravel. They had been travelling for 3 hours. Many of them walked as if they were cardboard cut-outs. However, in time, their joints became mobile and they could move properly. They stood in front of the main building. The exterior of the building resembled a prison. The colour of the building was cold and grey, it didn't look to be very inviting. The place gave Patrick goosebumps. There was no warmth, no life in the foundations.

" **Fuck me, it's huge!"**

The broad, South London accent broke the silence. It was obvious to everyone that he had never been to the country before. Patrick started to wish he was back in the hearth and warmth of home. However, he assured himself that everything would be alright and that, hopefully, the beds were comfortable. He detested nothing more than having a bad night's sleep. He became irascible, quick to fire sarcastic comments and would take the piss out of everyone and anyone. That's why having a comfy bed was crucial, not just for him, but for everyone else.

" **Right then, you lot. Come on, we haven't got all day to stand here like lemons. Get a shift on."**

Fearing the damage the officer's cane would do to them if they disobeyed, the men hauled their cases over the large concrete slabs that were supposed to be stairs but, they looked like a major health hazard and necks could easily be broken, especially regarding the fellow with big girth.

The younger, more fitter men, Patrick included, got up the stairs with ease. The fellow with a heavy gut got there eventually. His complexion resembled a cherry and sweat was running off him like water off a duck's back.

The door was very ornamental. It had a crest of a forgotten family at the top, but the features were crumbling away. It was oak with some gorgeous veneer weaved through it.

Patterns of trees, birds and berries stood out amongst it. The officer opened the door, which screamed out a long, agonising creak, which suggested that it hadn't been oiled in years.

The South Londoner was a bit of a wise boy, thinking he knew best and that everyone else was wrong. Sadly for Patrick, he would be sharing a bunk with him. The Londoner had his hair plastered in Brylcreem, so it looked like it hadn't had a good wash in months.

 _God, help me._

The suit he was wearing was tweed. How Patrick detested tweed. It was uncomfortable, and the colour scheme was absolutely dreadful. His style was sharp suits with the occasional wool jumper if it was cold or if he fancied wearing one.

The officer marched them to the sleeping quarters with the hefty fellow lagging behind. Patrick felt the icy blue gaze of the Londoner burrowing its way to the back of his head.

He was caught unaware when the Londoner placed his arm around him, like he was an old mate.

" **Alright there, Paddy, my son?"**

Patrick's flesh crawled. He loathed being called Paddy. He wasn't Irish, he was a Scouser through and through. He reckoned the lad knew his name from when the register was being called out in the van.

" **I'm fine, thank you."**

He managed to say the words clearly through gritted teeth. This man was overbearing, even for him. Patrick had the patience of a saint, but he also had his father's temper. Patrick wasn't the type to get angered easily but, when he did, all hell broke loose.

They reached the door to the sleeping quarters and were welcomed by a heavy metal door with a window in the middle. To Patrick, it was a peephole, it was that small. The officer got out a metal key and inserted in the lock. With a couple of hard turns, the door was unlocked.

The walls were grey and dull, another victim of the commander's choice of colour. A mould-like substance was in the far corner of the room. It was only a small patch, so it was harmless. There were 3 bunk beds on each side. They were cast iron to stay with the tone of the building.

Patrick turned to the Londoner to see which bunk he wanted.

" **Uh, excuse me?"**

" **Yes, Paddy, my son?"  
"First of all, what's your name?"**

" **Alfie."  
"Well, Alfie, which bunk would you like?"**

" **I'll 'ave the one nearest the door."**

" **Do you want to be top or bottom?"**

Alfie feigned a shock expression.

" **Paddy, I didn't know you were light in the loafers. At least I'm not on my own."**

Patrick wasn't in the mood to take anymore of Alfie's bullshit. He took deep breaths and counted to 10 to calm himself down.

" **I meant the top or bottom bunk."**

He could feel his face getting hotter and hotter. If one more slight remark came from Alfie, he would have the Turner Temper at full force.

" **Oh, right. Sorry, Paddy, I'll have the top."**

What the hell possessed Alfie to assume his orientation? He had had many dates with girls since he was 16 and he enjoyed every one of them. He didn't have any time for this.

He placed his suitcase next to the chest of drawers, removed his coat and collapsed on the bed. The mattress was as hard as wood, so he wouldn't be getting a good night sleep. He sighed. Even though he only waved goodbye to them a few hours ago, he missed his parents like mad.

A wave of different emotions washed over Patrick. He was uncertain of what was in store, happy that he was doing his bit for King and Country and sad about his parents. Tomorrow, the recruits would receive their uniforms and begin their training.

….

" **COME ON, WILSON. MY GRANDMOTHER CAN DO MORE PUSHUPS THAN YOU AND SHE'S 80!"**

Wilson struggled to even do one. The doctor said that he should lose weight for the sake of his health, but the Chelsea bun after work was a temptation that he couldn't bear to give up as he has a penchant for them. His wife Dorothy was an expert at cooking. He adored her stews, loved her pies and craved her desserts. Obesity ran in his family. His father and his grandfather died of heart attacks when they were 50. The weight also pulled the plug on his and Dorothy's night-time sessions. Every time he was on her, she could hardly breathe. The fat nearly smothered her to death.

She loved her husband dearly, but she nagged him to try and lose weight, if not for her then for himself. She cooked healthy meals for them both and the pounds started to drop off, but it all went back on when they went to a Christmas Party next door. She hoped that being in the Medical Corps would help him get into shape.

Patrick was going hell for leather at the pushups. His black hair was plastered onto his face, sweat pouring down his t-shirt and running off his defined jaw. He felt really good. He would complete this training no matter what.

" **Well done, Turner. That's it, lad. Keep it up."**

The objective was to do as many pushups as they could in 5 minutes. Patrick had no clue how much he did, he just had to keep going.

The t-shirt was starting to stick to his chest, with the sweat making its way down to his shorts. His muscles were burning and screaming in pain.

" **YOU GOT 2 MINUTES LEFT. MAYHEW, IF YOU DON'T GET A SHIFT ON, YOU'LL BE HERE TIL MORNING AND I HEAR IT'S GOING TO BE CHILLY TONIGHT!"**

At last.

Patrick did well to last this long. His sweat doused arms were on the verge of collapsing, but he would push on.

A few recruits had to drop out as the intensity was too much. Patrick, however, was made out of much harder stuff.

" **TIME'S UP! AT EASE."**

The moment those words were spoken, everyone collapsed onto the floor. Patrick's heart raced continually. He managed to get himself up. His entire t-shirt was soaked in sweat. One of the lower officers gave him a towel. Planting his face in the soft confines of the towel, he rubbed the accumulated moisture in his hair and around his neck.

The early start at 4:00am was a shock to the system but once they all got their uniform pack, they eventually settled down to their new routine. The uniform pack consisted of black steel toe-capped boots, brown trousers and shorts, green t-shirt and brown jacket. Patrick's uniform fitted him perfectly. Nothing was too long or too short. It was just right.

" **Right, now off to the showers, all of ya! QUIIIIICCKK MARCH**!"

They all ran towards the showers, which was a separate building to the rest of the barracks. It was a wooden shed with half of it used for undressing and getting bath towels. Patrick was glad to have hot water covering his body as at night, the sleeping quarters turned into the Arctic.

….

The water felt brilliant. Patrick ran his fingers through his hair to get the perspiration out. Beside the shower was a stand for soap, sponge and shampoo. The water enveloped Patrick's lean frame, washing the mud and filth away. He grabbed the bottle of shampoo and poured a good dollop. He massaged it into his wet hair, working it into a soapy lather. He found the steamy water quite calming. It carried away his feelings of uncertainty and anxiety. As he was getting rid of the shampoo, the soap suds trickled down his chest towards his toned legs before reaching the tiled floor. He plunged the sponge into the warm and rubbed soap against it. He started off by applying the sponge to his chest and under his arms as they were the areas mainly affected by the moisture. He moved the sponge lower down to lather his genitalia with the lemon scented soap. He made sure to get the soap everywhere. He lifted up the sheath and gave it a good lather of soap, working it through the creases and foreskin. He then placed the sponge on top and moved down, the action making him slightly warm and aroused. He felt it starting to go rigid and wide.

As he continued to wash, his sheath became harder as the blood flow increased. The foreskin started to descend as the head came into view. Patrick was feeling so pleasured, so hot. He never felt this stimulated before. The sponge slid towards the back of his testicles and down his soaked thighs. He was starting to get the urge to release the pressure within, but he couldn't risk being seen. However it was so steamy in the shower room that he couldn't see a metre in front of him.

As he sponged the inside of his thigh, he tried to contain himself, but it felt amazing. By now, his sheath was fully erect and had a shade of crimson to it. The passion was erupting inside his heart. He knew he had to do it slowly, lest he drew suspicion. Placing the sponge underneath, he began to rub himself against it. He let out a soft groan as his sheath was getting more engorged by the minute. The milk squirted onto the sponge. The more he did it, the more it flowed out. In a matter of minutes, he had reached climax. His breathing was heavy, his skin flushed.

He was in a state of euphoria. The soap suds were washed away, leaving Patrick clean and lemon fresh. As the steam started to clear, he saw his towel and wrapped it around his waist to hide his erection. He didn't want Alfie to get any ideas. As he walked into the changing room, he felt the warmth slowly leaving his body. He was first out so it was empty. He unwrapped himself and put on his underwear, to make it less conspicuous. He got himself fully dressed and made his way to the door, heading towards the barracks. He remembered that they were doing a test in a makeshift hospital ward to help prepare them for the real thing. At first, he was very nervous, but now, he felt very confident.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Italy**

The room had a delightful smell of pine, brandy and leather. A desk stood proudly in the centre. The curtains were wide open, allowing light to flood in, making the office brighter and more welcoming. At the desk was an older, stern-looking man. The medals he had won for bravery and so forth were adorned on his jacket. He was fiercely proud of his country and would happily lead other soldiers like himself to glory. However, no battle is fought without any sacrifices. He pushed back from the desk and gazed down at his feet. He was grateful that he had got back from the first war alive, but he knew when he woke up in the hospital back in Blighty that something wasn't right. His right leg had been severely hit with shrapnel, puncturing the flesh in numerous places. It then turned gangrenous. His skin soon became a light hue of mint. Sores appeared, oozing out yellow-clear liquid, leaving open craters when the doctors burst them to relieve the pain. The smell of rotten pork was foul in the air. It cleared the entire ward. The skin became blackened, like charcoal, and began to flake off the bed, like puff pastry. The doctors knew that the leg had gone past the point of salvation, so they amputated it. At first, he was distraught, as how could any woman love him if he couldn't dance.

A loss of a limb can damage a man's pride. He became a heavy drinker, spending all his time in the Gems pub, frivolously spending his pay on drink and ladies of the night. Eventually, he was called up to see his superiors as they feared he was sullying the RAMC's good name. He was given a dilemma; to clean up his act and mentor new recruits or risk being dishonourably discharged with reduced pay. He decided on the former.

He left those days behind. He found a woman who loved him the way he was, and she wasn't afraid of seeing his stump whilst in bed. To her, he was just as capable as any other man. They had two beautiful children, who grew into fine men.

He glanced his eye over the new list of recruits. He received word from on high that not all recruits would be going to Italy. Some would be sent to France, others to China, the rest to the Baltic countries. He heard on the wireless that Germany had invaded Norway and Denmark to protect ore shipments from Sweden; shipments that the Allies were supposed to protect. He also received word that the Vergine Maria Hospital in Rome were becoming short-staffed as the staff were either shot to smithereens, blown to pieces or having psychological breakdowns. After an hour's deliberation, he made his decision. He dialled his secretary to bring in the recruits one by one.

…

Patrick was gleaming with joy. He was heading to the beautiful country of Italy to help out in the Vergine Maria Hospital in Rome. He reflected briefly on his time at the camp. There was laughter, hard work and tears. A couple of months into training, Wilson sadly passed away from a heart attack in his sleep. It was expected as he was a ticking time bomb, but Patrick looked to him as a second father. Always departing sound advice, chastising him when he came in drunk on numerous occasions and reassuring him when he had bouts of homesickness. He was leaving this afternoon, so he had to pack quickly. Everything was folded neatly and placed in its proper section of the suitcase.

He knew from his father that Italy was gorgeously sunny, so he put in some short-sleeved shirts, just in case. Butterflies were flipping his stomach in all directions. He had never left home before. He would write to his parents to assure them that he was ok.

 **KNOCK. KNOCK.**

The door creaked open. Patrick detected a hint of Brylcreem. He turned to see Alfie hovering behind the door. Patrick sensed a change in Alfie's demeanour. He wasn't loud and brash as he usually was. Instead he was withdrawn and quiet.

" **Are you alright, Alfie?"**

Alfie walked closely towards him, eyes red and puffy. He had been crying. Patrick saw this and became worried about him.

" **Have you been crying, Alfie?"**

" **No."**

Patrick knew he was lying. He was hiding something.

" **You can tell me, Alfie. I may be able to help."**

" **How, if I won't see you again?"**

Patrick was slightly confused by this outburst. He didn't think Alfie to be this emotional.

" **Alfie. Please tell me. I want to help."**

He stepped towards Alfie until he was face to face. He placed his hand on Alfie's shoulder. Alfie looked at him lovingly. There were so many things he wanted to tell him, things he wanted to do to him. For Patrick to take him in his arms, pulling him closer so their hearts would beat in time. For Patrick to lay him on the bed, his breath on his lips. For their hands to explore each other, undressing and taking in the scent of Henley's, lemons and honey. For their bodies to intertwine to make love. To feel Patrick's sheath getting hard as he applied lubrication. To feel the appendage rubbing against his thighs, making him warm and moist. To mutually reach climax with Patrick breathing heavily in his neck.

Alfie knew he was walking on a double-edged sword. Homosexuality was a crime for which he could be imprisoned or chemically castrated. But, in this room, he was away from the prying eyes of the world. He didn't wish to scare Patrick and would respect his decision no matter what.

" **I don't want you to leave, Paddy."**

Patrick understood. Over the 5 months, the two had become firm friends after conquering the prior animosity between them. At first, Alfie thought Patrick as a very handsome man. However, as the weeks went by, Alfie developed feelings for Patrick. As all the other recruits avoided him due to him being a pansy, Patrick was the only friend he ever had, and he was grateful for the company.

" **I know, Alfie. But I must. I only have 10 minutes before I have to go."**

He removed his hand from Alfie and walked back to close the lid of his suitcase, which he then placed on the floor. He grabbed his jacket and put it on, checking himself in the mirror to assure himself that he looked respectable.

Alfie was suffering inner turmoil as time was running out for him to tell Patrick. It was now or never.

" **I love you, Paddy."**

Patrick's head turned sharply. He was slightly shocked but not surprised. He knew that there was something between them. He was a fool for not picking up on it.

" **I just want you to know, Paddy that, whether you just see me as a friend or something more, I will respect whatever decision you make."**

Patrick smiled. He was flattered by this. He was aware of Alfie's feelings, but he didn't feel the same way. Whether or not it was because homosexuality was illegal, he wasn't sure.

He always found members of the opposite sex the objects of his amorous desire. Many of his friends were that way inclined and he accepted them. But to find himself an object of desire by a member of the same sex was a tad overwhelming.

He returned back to Alfie and placed both hands on his arms.

" **I know you do, Alfie. I am flattered but it's just that I only see you as a friend. A very good friend. Who knows, perhaps in another life, we could have been together.**

" **Just not this life."**

Alfie smiled. He understood what Patrick was saying. He didn't expect him to reciprocate his feelings

 **BEEP. BEEP.**

A car horn interrupted the moment. Patrick grabbed his suitcase and made his way towards the door.

" **Paddy?"**

Patrick looked back. Alfie's cheeks were flushed red. He had the temptation to run to Patrick and kiss him passionately, but Patrick made his position clear.

" **Yes?"**

Alfie's arm shot forward, waiting for Patrick.

Patrick put his case on the floor, walked briskly towards Alfie and gave him a firm handshake.

" **Good luck out there."**

" **Thank you, Alfie. Where are they sending you?"**

" **France. Should be alright for someone like me."**

They both smiled.

" **Good luck to you too, Alfie."**

" **Thanks."**

Patrick left to return to his suitcase but stopped halfway there. He turned on himself and planted a kiss on Alfie's forehead. Alfie was surprised by this notion, but he loved the feeling inside of him.

" **Good bye, Alfie."**

" **Good bye, Paddy."**

Patrick continued his walk towards his suitcase, picked it up and left, leaving Alfie to reflect on what could have been.

….

The ferry to Italy was long but relaxing. The Mediterranean waves were crystal blue and the scenery was breath-taking The June summer sun beat down on Patrick as he was relaxing on the deck with a glass of brandy. Patrick saw in the distance the Apennines Mountains, standing steadfast against the bombs and gunfire. He learned what the current situation was from the commanding officer. Italy were going to attack Malta and he, along with the medical staff were going to occupy the local hospital to treat the casualties that would inevitably occur.

He realised that Malta was strategically important to the Allies and the Axis. The battle would be on to see who would conquer it first. The hospital he would be going to was called the Dawla. The ferry was closing in onto the port. With the salty sea air running its fingers through his curls, Patrick understood that he needed all his strength to help those wounded in the siege. The island wasn't completely defenceless as there was British sea and air forces based there. He rushed to his room to get his suitcase as the ferry was preparing to dock.

As Patrick waited to depart the ship, he saw a young man in a 3-piece suit, hat and tan trench coat walking backwards and forwards on the pier. From the looks of him, it was the Director of Vergine Maria Hospital. But he had to check, just to make sure.

He descended down the bridge and landed on Italian soil, nearly tripping over his own feet. He stopped himself just in time, so that he wouldn't be seen as incompetent in front of the Director. He wanted to make a good impression as he would be working with him and his staff for a few years.

The man looked at Patrick and smiled, putting Patrick's fears at ease. His piercing blue eyes examined the newcomer and, satisfied that Patrick was harmless, approached him.

" **Excuse me. Captain Turner, I presume?"**

" **Yes, that's right. Patrick Turner.**

He offered his hand to the Director, who shook it firmly. Patrick became a little intimidated by the Director. He stood at 6ft 5, and Patrick was 5ft 11. The Director had light brown hair, with a beard to match. Surprisingly, the Director spoke with an English accent.

" **It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain Turner. My name is Colonel Anderson. I'm the Director of Vergine Maria Hospital. I see you brought the sunny rays of England with you."**

Patrick chuckled. It was nice to talk to someone similar to his age and who knew more about the country than he did.

" **Shall we?"  
** Colonel Anderson stepped aside, indicating to Patrick that he wanted him to walk alongside him, so he obliged.

The two walked in time to one another. Patrick's eyes darted everywhere, observing the pine and lemon trees, the medieval buildings, walls and the monasteries. Not to mention the sun-kissed Italian beauties strolling past, selling roses. His eye focused on one wearing a pale-yellow blouse and a long, flowing white skirt with a gold bandana taming her raven hair. She noticed his attention and blushed, making Patrick more interested in her.

" **I take the commanding officer has told you about the unit travelling to Malta?"**

Anderson's words were falling on deaf ears. Patrick was enraptured by the goddess in gold. Passion started to simmer in his loins. The way her hips sashayed from side to side, her pearly white smile, her tempting figure. He was getting a little hot under the collar.

" **Captain Turner?"**

Patrick snapped out of the trance. The golden beauty was walking off with her friends to the beach. She waved to him and he returned the gesture.

Anderson's eye caught the beauty and he smiled.

" **Beautiful girls, aren't they?"**

" **They sure are."**

" **There will be time for that later, Captain Turner. For now, we have to focus on business."**

Patrick pulled himself together. He took deep breaths to tame the hot blood rushing in his veins. He gave Anderson a sheepish glance, embarrassed by his conduct.

" **Sorry, sir. I don't know what came over me. To answer your question, yes. The commanding officer told me everything."**

" **Excellent. You'll be staying with me for a few days before we go. Give you time to explore the sights and other pursuits."  
"Thank you. So, how long have you lived in Italy?"**

" **About 15 years. The people were a little hostile as expected. But over time, I gained their trust."**

Patrick noticed a lot of men wearing black shirts and ties. To him, they were military men but sensed a violent nature about them. Anderson leaned close to his ear.

" **I wouldn't pick a fight with them. They're the Black shirts. Mussolini's personal guards. They eradicate any opposition threatening to overrule him. So it's best to keep your head down and stay quiet. Alright?"**

" **Alright."**

The two reached a black Maserati. The bodywork gleamed in the sun. The interior was leather and looked very comfortable. Patrick got in the passenger side and began to admire the walnut veneer. He was quite the car fanatic, a hobby he inherited from his dad. How he missed him. And his mother too. When he got to Anderson's apartment, he would write to them, telling him how beautiful Italy was.

As they drove to the apartment, Patrick saw a darker side of Rome. Buildings blackened and destroyed by fire, shops closed with anti-propaganda messages scrawled across it in paint. People living in fear of the Black shirts. Suspected members of the opposition being tortured and beaten in the street, shrieking 'Liberare le persone!' as the Blackshirts belted them with a cat o' nine tails tipped with steel. Their blood painted the cobbles as each lash was seared into their bare flesh.

Patrick was horrified by their treatment and that he couldn't do anything to help them, lest he suffered the same fate.

" **It's disgusting how he treats his own people."**

" **Quite."**

Anderson saw that the cheery mood had died down in Patrick's tone of voice.

" **What say you to a drink? I know a local bar we can go to."**

" **That will be fine."**

Patrick couldn't get the screams out of his head. A drink was just what he needed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Malta**

White wisps whizzed by the window of the army aeroplane. For his first time in a plane, Patrick handled it very well. He feared that his nerves would get the better of him, but he conquered them with ease. The pilot had to fly with caution, for accompanying them in the air was the Italian _Regia Aeronautica_ fighter planes. Patrick was shocked as he witnessed the metal hens dropping their deadly eggs onto the plains. As he gazed upon Malta, he saw the destruction they caused. Craters riddled the land like a disease. The island's defence forces were the cure. Patrick was in awe as he saw the Gloster Sea Gladiators preparing to strike the enemy in aerial warfare.

There were about 6 Sea Gladiators against 10 Savoia-Marchetti SM. 79s. The enemies commenced their performance, outmanoeuvring each other in an array of spins, twirls and whirls. Patrick was attuned to the adrenaline rush of the fighter pilots. There were near misses and one fatal hit of one of the Sea Gladiators. Patrick closed his eyes and prayed for the fallen pilot, in the hope that his soul would find peace. The rest of the Gladiators shot down 7 of the 10 Italian aircraft with a hail of bullets.

Patrick's aircraft began to descend. He was trembling with nerves as they were passing the Italian aircraft. Luckily, they managed to pass by undetected. Patrick let out a huge sigh for he was holding his breath the entire time. The runway was getting closer into view.

The landing was quite smooth in light of what was going on around them. Patrick was welcomed with a blast of hot air as he exited the plane. He had never seen the sky so blue. He noticed a car waiting for him. He rushed towards the car, for fear of the enemy raining down bullets on him. He dived into the car and shut the door. He told the driver his destination and they left, driving evasively to avoid the raids and bombs.

They arrived to what remained of the Dawla Hospital. It was a battle worn, damaged husk. The front of the hospital was completely blown off with the door hanging by its hinges. Rubble decorated the road and green pastures. The area around him had been drained of colour, of life and, to some extent, of hope.

As Patrick walked up the remains of the stairs, it dawned on him that, as well as being capable of kindness, man was also capable of cruelty and brutality. He dreaded what states of mental health the Axis were in. Innocent people were suffering unnecessarily. He entered gingerly into the reception, in case the enemy was lurking in the darkest of corners. The removal of colour even inflicted the corridors and the inner heart of the hospital. The doors to the ward creaked open. Unlike the rest of the hospital, the ward was full of life as doctors and nurses were moving patients here and there to avoid the rubble falling everywhere. Patrick couldn't believe that the hospital was such a shambolic state and yet, here these people were, fulfilling their duty to nurse the sick and wounded despite the world falling down around them.

Patrick's eyes also fell upon the young nurses gracing the ward with their beauty, intelligence and poise. The adrenaline from the flight still had him fully in its grasp. His sexual appetite was heightened, and he was getting high on the buzz. They had stunning figures, gorgeous legs and seductive smiles. The more Patrick saw them, the more his loins were tantalised. He shook the thought from his mind. He wasn't here to satisfy his lust for the young, supple pleasures of the flesh, he was here to do his duty to King and Country. His eyes darted around the room looking for Colonel Anderson, but he wasn't there.

" **Captain Turner?"**

The dulcet tones warmed Patrick's heart. He turned to see a young woman, near his age, wearing a slim nurse's uniform which embraced her shape beautifully. Her chocolate brown curls were hidden by her nurse's hat. Her eyes were piercing blue. Patrick smiled. His luck was in.

" **Yes?"**

" **My name is Nurse Bianchi. The Director would like to see you."**

" **Of course."**

Patrick followed the voluptuous siren towards the Director's office. He knew that Anderson had arrived a few days before him to prepare for when he arrived. He was a little surprised that he didn't greet him at the runway but then he supposed that, with everything going on at the hospital with them being short-staffed, Anderson had to come back quickly. He kept a good distance from Nurse Bianchi; not too close to invade her personal space but not too far that he was lagging behind. He wanted to admire her curvaceous figure.

He resisted the urge of taking Nurse Bianchi into the storage cupboard where they could get to know each other more intimately. He would love to land his plane on her runway. The further he indulged himself in this fantasy, the more amorous he felt. He could feel his sheath becoming more aroused and engorged. It was a good thing he was wearing a long coat. Her hips were swaying from side to side and she had a peachy arse, which always turned Patrick on. He began to feel hot under the collar. His fiery blood was desperate to be unleashed but Patrick had to rule over it otherwise he would be in big trouble.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get her figure and beauty out of his mind. His sheath was getting harder and more rigid by the minute. The sooner he got to the Director's office the better, for he was in the grasp of temptation. He could see the Director's office in the distance. If he could just resist for a few more minutes, he would be alright. Nurse Bianchi halted in her movement and knocked on the oak door.

" **Come in!"**

Patrick immediately recognised the distinctive tones of the Colonel resonating through the door. Nurse Bianchi pulled the door towards her with all her might. Patrick was braced to catch her in his arms, but he could only hope.

" **Captain Turner is here to see you, sir."  
"Ah, excellent. Send him in.**

" **Of course, sir."**

Nurse Bianchi turned slightly towards Patrick, which made him desire her even more. He could feel some pre-seminal fluid flowing onto his trousers. He knew he couldn't even attempt to do anything with the Colonel present. He would try again later. He was the type to never rush into things with a woman. He would wait until she was comfortable and open around him and ready for the next step. He found it hard to control his lust, but, if he could focus more on his role at the hospital, he would have no problem. He found that Nurse Bianchi made him feel differently in a way that the lasses back home couldn't. He could see a future with her, a happy life and marriage. It was bliss.

Patrick thanked Nurse Bianchi for showing him the way and entered the domain of the Colonel. The wallpaper was a horrible shade of yellow. It made Patrick question the Colonel's taste but, then again, it wasn't his place to question personal preferences. At the far corner of the room was a miniature library with a leather sofa. The books of the shelves look tattered, as if they had been read multiple times. A slightly worn geometric rug had its place in the middle of the room. By the state of it, it seemed that the Colonel had many visitors to his office. The Colonel was sat at a mahogany desk with a bottle of Glenfiddich beside him. The ashtray was littered with cigars. He had a cigar in his mouth when he looked up and saw Patrick.

" **Ah, Captain. Close the door, would you?"  
"Of course, sir."**

Patrick grabbed the door knob and pulled it towards him.

" **Please, have a seat."**

 ****Anderson gestured at the chair that was opposite him.

" **Thank you, sir."**

Patrick occupied the seat and crossed his legs to hide his erection. He didn't want the Colonel getting the wrong idea. Patrick's train of thought was still occupied by Nurse Bianchi and her assets. She was like Venus; beautiful, seductive, curvy and lithe. He smiled at the thought as the sheath became more prominent in his trousers.

" **Cigar?"**

Patrick was still in a daze. He wondered if she was single and, if she was, he could easily fill the vacancy in her heart.

" **Captain Turner?"**

Patrick awoke from his trance and kindly took the Colonel's offer.

" **Sorry, sir. My mind was occupied by Nurse Bianchi. She truly is a stunner."**

" **She certainly is. We're getting married in a few months."**

Patrick's mouth fell. What did he mean by 'getting married'?

" **I'm not sure I understand, sir."  
"It's alright, Turner. Nurse Bianchi is my bride to be. We've been engaged for the past 4 years.**

Patrick was shocked. The object of his desire belonged to another. His dreams fell apart at the seams.

 _Bollocks._

In one way, Patrick was glad that Nurse Bianchi was engaged as he would never project his sexual advances on a taken woman but on the other hand, he was so frustrated. It had been months since his sexual passion was tamed. He didn't want to gain reputation as the hospital's own Casanova. Instead, he would channel his frustration into his work and patient care.

The Colonel attempted to light his cigar, but it didn't work so Patrick got out his lighter and lit it for him.

" **Thank you, Turner."  
"You're welcome, sir. Congratulations on your engagement."**

" **Thank you."**

Patrick had never had a cigar before. He coughed a few times at the billowing smoke but, after a while, he got the hang of it.

" **I apologise for not meeting you at the runway, Turner. Some important business came up and it couldn't wait, I'm afraid."**

" **It's alright, sir. Landing was quite the frightening experience as the plane was going past the Italian aircraft."**

" **I see. You know, the reason for these raids isn't to destroy the dockyards and buildings?"**

" **It isn't?"**

" **No. It's designed to lower the morale of the people.**

Patrick took a long drawl of the cigar and released the smoke. He was calmer than he was before.

" **That's awful."  
"It is. They are a heartless bunch. But, then again, they can't exactly disobey Mussolini."**

" **True."**

" **Anyway, there is accommodation on the outskirts of the hospital for you. There is a canteen on site as the one in the hospital got completely obliterated during the last raid. You'll have a room to yourself with ensuite and, at the back of the door, there is a timetable of when breakfast, lunch and dinner is served."**

" **Thank you, sir."  
"I shall take you there after you finish your shift."**

" **Alright, sir."**

Anderson checked his watch. It was lunchtime.

" **You'll start on the shift after lunch. No doubt, you're famished."  
"Ravenous, sir."**

They both chuckled. Patrick could see him and Anderson having a good professional relationship. Anderson stood up and finished his cigar, which he dropped into the ashtray. Patrick followed suit.

" **Well then. Shall we, Turner?"  
"Yes, sir."**

Anderson led Patrick out the office and they made their way towards the canteen. Patrick was feeling a little nervous about his first day. However, he knew to take it one step at a time and do his work to the best of his ability.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Home is Where the Heart Is:**

 _12th September 1940_

 _Dear Father,_

 _I have arrived at the Dawla Hospital in Malta. The flight was frightfully nerve-wracking as the aeroplane was flying close to the Italian fighter planes. The landscape has been completely destroyed by the enemy raids. Trees have become skeletal, ground scorched and blackened. The buildings are empty shells of their former lives. The streets are bare and there is no life, no colour in the area. The morale of the Maltese people has decreased significantly. It is as if they have lost all hope for a better future. Some of them are living on the streets as they have nowhere else to go. They don't deserve this, no one does._

 _The accommodation at the hospital is quite good. The beds are lovely and comfy, and the showers are as clean as they can be. The staff here are quite friendly. Naturally, the female staff are stunners, but I can't let their tempting beauty distract me from what I'm here to do._

 _Today was eventful. A bomb managed to hit a local pub and the casualties came to us. I have never seen anything like it before. The landlord was shell shocked; his white eyes writhing in his head. Blood running down his face, staining his shirt and matting his hair. He was shaking with fear. His body rocked back and forth. I fear that his mind may have gone astray. In the distance, you can hear the bestial anger of the guns defending the land from the enemy._

 _A young child was caught in the blast. She was only about 5 or 6. A piece of the beam had impaled her leg so badly, she couldn't fit on the stretcher, so the medics had to cut a chunk off, so she could be transported. I was told that her mother was dead before they got there. Her father had died many years before. Someone so young, losing her mother like that. I can't imagine how she must have felt. I gave her some pain relief and operated on her along with a colleague. Her nerves were torn all the way through. We managed to remove the beam but, in doing so, she haemorrhaged We attempted to stop the bleeding. There was so much blood, there was no telling where it was coming from. Eventually, there was nothing we could do. She bled to death in front of my eyes. I could have saved her. I tried to resuscitate her but to no avail. She deserved a better life than that._

 _The staff are doing their utmost best to try and be positive for their patients' sake, but they are struggling. I know some colleagues who have turned to drink, recreational drugs and going to brothels, just to escape it all. I can't say I blame them. I myself have been drinking more than usual. It's not healthy, I know, but it's the only thing to numb the pain. I sometimes wonder what is the point of it all. Why try to save someone when you know that they are going to die, one way or another? It's no good thinking like that. I'm just so tired. Night shifts will become the death of me. I can't be negative. Surely some good will come out of this. But the question is, at what cost?_

 _The days seem so long here. Every day, there is death everywhere. It may sound heartless, but I can't let that little girl's death affect me. I can't let it affect my work. I need to try and help those in need, to give them a chance of living again. I need to move on and accept that nothing could be done._

 _As well as bad days, there have been good days. For example, a nurse and I helped a young woman to deliver twins, a boy and a girl. It is a shame that they were brought into the world in the current circumstances. However, both are healthy, and I couldn't be happier. As long as I hold on to the good things that have happened in the hospital, I will be alright._

 _The autumn weather sends a chill in the air. The leaves would have been gorgeous colours if they hadn't been blasted to death. I do miss the feel of the leaves crunching underneath my feet. Sitting by the fire with Mother's homemade tomato soup with crusty bread._

 _Anyway, enough about me. How is Mother faring? I do miss her casseroles and heart-warming soups. Don't mention anything in this letter to her. I don't wish for her to worry._

 _For the last couple of days, I have had night terrors. I fear this war will change me but not for the better. I fear that I will lose myself and become a shadow of who I am. It terrifies me. I have to try and not let the war affect me. Of course, my experiences here will change me as a person, discovering my strengths and weaknesses. It's just mental changes that I am afraid of._

 _I hope that you are well, and that work is going well. I miss you both so much and I hope to see you both soon._

 _Love to you and Mother, look after one another_

 _Your devoted son_

 _Patrick._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Timmy:**

The room was quiet. He preferred it that way. Patrick was lying down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. A telegram had arrived for him this morning. He had hoped it was good news. He was wrong. It stated that his mother was killed when a bomb hit the house and wiped out half the street, injuring passers-by. She forgot to turn the light off and the Luftwaffe found it. Luckily, his father was working late but it didn't help to fill the hole in Patrick's heart. He was at a loss for words. He felt wretched. He wanted to cry but he couldn't. He wasn't a little boy anymore. He was a grown man. He would never see her face again. Her chocolate brown eyes that had been passed on to him, her smile and comforting voice.

A tear fell but he brushed it away. He had to be strong. The drink wasn't potent enough to ease the pain anymore. He had built a resistance to it. He needed something more than drink. Something to make him feel more alive again for he felt numb and dissociated from life. His train of thought started to manifest into morbidity and malice.

He eased himself from the bed and walked to the bathroom. He knew what he was going to do and the implications of it. But he didn't care. Not anymore. He rolled up one of the sleeves of his blue blouse. He needed to release the pain, the anger, the frustration. He opened the cupboard and searched for them. He found them immediately.

A pack of razor blades.

He removed one from the pack and stared at it. How it glistened in the light. He rinsed it under hot water. The last thing he wanted was his arm to become infected. He placed himself on the toilet seat. His eyes were fixating on the door, praying that no one else in the male residential halls would come in and see him. His mind was racing with the memories of all that had happened. Dying patients, the destruction around him. Now the loss of his mother. His dear, sweet mother.

Patrick held the blade firmly in his left hand. He took very deep breaths. He didn't want to do it. But what choice did he have? If he couldn't cry, he had to do something. The blade hovered over his arm.

He tensed his arm and placed the warm blade onto his skin.

Patrick walked down the stairs with his white coat trailing behind him. He managed to wrap his arm with gauze and bandages from the first aid kit. He was more relaxed and in control. His first stop would be the pharmacy to procure some painkillers. The pain was harsh and severe, but he didn't let it show in his emotions. He didn't wish for anyone to know. They would think that he was weak and that he couldn't cope. He was a strong man. All he had to do was to not let his mask slip.

After pocketing the medication from the pharmacy, he looked into the mirror. He saw a man who had stared death in the face, who was tired of all the endless killing and all the innocent lives being taken. However, he had to be strong, not just for the people around him, but also for himself.

He forced himself to smile even though he didn't feel like it. He remembered the good times he had with his mother, which helped a little.

The doors burst open. He turned to see a crowd of medics and doctors around the trolley. The war had claimed another victim.

" **Ah, Captain Turner. There you are."**

Nurse Bianchi called out to him, forcing him to put his feelings on the backburner.

" **What do we have, Nurse?"**

She handed him the patient's notes. The name took him by surprise.

 _Timothy Hawkins._

His eyes widened in fear. He had no idea that Timmy was posted here. It had been nearly 2 years since he saw him last. Patrick hoped that his injuries were not life-threatening. He couldn't bear it if he lost him too.

" **Is everything alright, Captain?"  
"Yes, yes. Everything is alright. Tell me, who is his doctor?**

" **Colonel Anderson thought it best to assign him to you."**

Patrick nodded. On one hand, it would provide the perfect opportunity to catch up with Timmy but, at the same time, if something happened to him, he would never forgive himself.

" **Thank you, Nurse."**

Patrick set foot into the ward and made his way to where Timmy was. He detected the pungent odour of decaying flesh. He gazed upon his friend and the brutal injuries that had been inflicted on him. Most of the staff vacated the ward due to the smell. Timmy was sedated, which was a good thing considering the injuries. Patrick braced himself for what was to come.

First, he would examine the damage to the lower half of his body. According to the notes, Timmy was directly in a bomb blast and had suffered 2nd-3rd degree burns to the upper half of his body.

Patrick grabbed the corner of the sheet that covered Timmy's legs and pulled it back. The male staff, aside from Patrick, were hit by an immense wave of nausea and rushed to the bathroom. The tissue was black and scorched, penetrating all three layers of the skin. As he examined further, the kneecap was fully exposed with most of the muscles still attached. All the nerves below it was badly damaged. His foot was charred. The stagnant blood that burst due to the severe heat painted most of his skin red. The leg was also mottled green with a putrid smell and fluid was building up inside. Patrick knew that any attempt to save the right leg would be futile

The left leg had 2nd degree burns and open wounds. There was a wide-open wound on the inside of the thigh that started at the crease and went all the way down to the knee. The laceration, by Patrick's estimation was about 5cm deep. Stitching and a few skin grafts were noted down.

As Patrick moved further up, he saw something that made his blood run cold. Between the legs, there was nothing but ruptured skin and loose tissue. He recommended that a gauze and stitches would be placed there. He hoped that Timmy didn't plan on having kids anytime soon.

He placed the sheet back over the legs. He had a look at Timmy's chest. There wasn't any major damage, apart from blistered skin and tenderness. His face was covered in filth and mud. There was a gash on his forehead, blood flowing freely and soaking his shirt.

He ordered the nurse to get Timmy a nightgown and to give him pain relief every 3 hours.

Patrick's heart was beating ten to the dozen. Nausea washed over him, starting to exert control over him. He rushed out the ward and went outside for fresh air.

The faint smell of gunpowder lingered in the air. He could feel his stomach clenching. He tried to put the thought of Timmy's injuries to the back of the mind, but they kept resurfacing. The bile rose up to his throat. He swallowed repeatedly to try and push it back. In a matter of minutes, he was able to taste it in the mouth. He ran to the side of the hospital so that no one could see him. A warm, cloudy liquid spilled from his mouth and fell onto the grass. After a while, he took deep breaths and rested himself against the wall.

How was he going to tell Timmy that he would never have children?

Not to mention the fact that he was also physically emasculated.

It would destroy him.

But Patrick wouldn't lie to him. Timmy had to know the truth, no matter how painful.

When his stomach had ceased doing backflips, he walked back inside.

He stopped by the water fountain to quench his thirst. The cold elixir refreshed his palate and destroyed the remnants of the acidic taste.

He drifted back into the ward where he saw that Timmy was awake.

Timmy's eyes widened when he saw Patrick. He was overjoyed to see a familiar face.

Patrick took a deep breath and approached the bedside.

" **Hello, Patrick. Long time no see."**

The words were barely audible. Patrick put it down to the anaesthetic and tiredness.

" **Hello, Timmy."**

" **How are you keeping?"  
"I'm alright."**

Timmy smiled. He felt as if all the energy had drained from him. He struggled to keep himself awake.

" **Where am I, Patrick?"  
"You're in Dawla. You were in a direct bomb blast."  
**Timmy nodded.

" **That's right. I remember. Came right out of the blue, it did.** **Knocked me for six. I think I went about a few feet in the air. "**

" **You have serious injuries, Timmy."**

" **How bad is it?"**

Timmy looked at Patrick with hope in his icy blue eyes. His mind began thinking that he only had a few broken bones. However, judging by the expression on Patrick's face, it wasn't good.

" **Your right leg is completely damaged. All the tendons are burnt away and it's in the mid stages of wet gangrene. It would need to be amputated above the knee to avoid the risk of sepsis."**

Timmy was silent. He could live without a leg. His old man lost his in the Great War. There was support for him and he could get an artificial leg and the doctors would help him cope with the emotional and physical trauma.

" **You've also suffered genital trauma."**

Patrick saw the horror become present in Timmy's face. A hard lump was forming in his throat.

" **Is it ok?"**

Timmy's voice wobbled as tears formed in his eyes. The thought was too much but he had to be sure.

" **I'm afraid not. The blast fully castrated you. I'm so sorry, Timmy."**

Timmy's chin began to tremble as the tears flowed endlessly down his face. Who would have him now?

Patrick reassuringly placed his hand on Timmy's shoulder as the lad bawled at the realisation that he would never father children of his own.

" **The surgery for your leg will be early tomorrow morning, Timmy. Try and get some rest."**

" **Thanks, Patrick."**

He wiped the tears away with his sleeves.

" **I have to go and finish my rounds, but I'll see you again later. OK?"**

" **OK."**

" **I'll bring you a little bottle of something stronger."**

The lad's disposition cheered up a little, but Patrick understood that he was hurting badly inside.

He left Timmy to his own thoughts. He thought it best, given the circumstances. He empathised with him. Not physically but mentally.

His heart went out to him. Physical emasculation is the hardest thing any man would have to face. But he knew people who could help Timmy with that. Even though the feeling of inadequacy wouldn't go away, they would help him change his outlook.

Patrick felt the sun shine on him through the window. Hopefully, it was a sign of better things to come.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Christmas Wishes:**

Tinsel made its home on the wall and around the frames of the doors. Patrick had never seen so much colour. The wards looked very different than before. It amazed him what a huge difference adding lights and decoration made. It was his first Christmas away from home, and the first without his mother. His father sent him a letter, explaining that he would go to his sister's for Christmas. Patrick was glad of this, as he didn't want him to spend Christmas on his own. The parting paragraph of the letter was still present in Patrick's mind:

 _Every man has times of weakness, son. There have been many occasions where I have felt the same thing myself. In my opinion, I think that it's wrong that men can't be allowed to express emotions in a healthy way, such as crying. It means that they have to seek alternative routes to deal with the pain like you're doing. I know it's hard, believe me when I say that. But for every dark cloud, there is sunshine just behind it. You have my full support and I'm proud of you, Patrick. Your mother is too, and she will be looking down on you._

It made Patrick feel at ease to know that his father understood his predicament. He was on his rounds, ensuring that everyone was comfortable. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a stunning redhead heading straight for him. She was quite young, about 20. She had the most striking green eyes, glimmering like emeralds in the light. Her appearance was quite elegant. She had more of an hourglass figure than the other nurses and, from what Patrick had heard, she was unattached. One of the patients dropped their book on the floor, so she bent down to pick it up, leaving Patrick to admire the view before him. His blood was getting a little heated and the sleeping passion was reawakening. Another thing that lightened his mood was that the Colonel called him in the office to congratulate him on his excellent rates of patient care.

The Colonel further commented that, if Patrick kept it up, he would put him in line for a promotion. Patrick was filled with glee. It warmed his heart to know that his hard work wasn't going by unnoticed. He had never felt this joyous before and he was willing to share the mood with everyone.

" **Excuse me, Captain?"**

The angelic voice had an Irish lilt, which resonated throughout Patrick's body, sending shivers down his spine.

Patrick's head moved to the dulcet tone and his eyes widened in awe at the petite red-haired maiden, who was standing a few feet away from him.

" **Forgive me, but I thought Nurse Bianchi was helping me with the rounds."**

" **She's been struck down with the flu. So you have the pleasure of me."**

The nurse stood to attention and saluted Patrick.

" **Nurse O'Beirne waiting for your orders, Captain, sir."**

Patrick smiled. He admired Nurse O'Beirne's sense of humour. She seemed quite headstrong and like she knew her own mind. Patrick knew that, from his many dates as a youngster, Irish lasses, and red-haired ones at that, are very strong willed and would take no shit from anyone.

" **Very well, Nurse O'Beirne. Shall we get started?"**

" **Yes, sir."**

The first patient on the list was Timmy. Patrick was aware of Timmy's low moods and gruff manner. He was working with fellow colleagues on how to help him with his depression. One of the colleagues suggested art therapy so that Timmy would release his emotions on paper. The hospital gave Timmy some pencils and a notepad.

Timmy drew stick figures depicting his injuries and how other people would think of him, more specifically the ladies. Other pictures included words, insults coming from Timmy's own psyche. Patrick sighed as 'worthless', 'freak', 'backward', 'peculiar' among other words, dominated the page.

Patrick could tell from Timmy's expression that he had given up hope. That his life would be meaningless if he couldn't make love to a woman, to start a family of his own.

" **Good morning, Timmy."**

Nothing. Not even a mumble. He just laid there in silence. It gave the impression that Timmy was in no mood to talk.

" **Alright, Timmy. I'm just going to check your dressings to see if they need changing."**

He lifted up the sheet to gain access to the lower half of Timmy's body. The right leg was healing brilliantly. But the left was giving Patrick cause for concern. It was weeping every day and was showing no signs of getting better but signs of infection.

" **This is infected, Timmy."**

He looked at Timmy, desperate for an answer. But Timmy stared at him with cold, emotionless eyes.

" **Nurse, can you prescribe more antibiotics and clean dressings?"**

" **Of course, Captain."**

As Patrick made his way around the wards, he couldn't stop thinking about Timmy. In previous weeks, the wound was healing excellently so why had it worsened? His eyes widened as he thought of the only possibility.

 _No._

 _He wouldn't, would he?_

The more Patrick dwelled on it, the more possible it seemed. In his current state of mind, Timmy was capable of doing anything to himself or to others.

He wouldn't confront him about it yet. It would just make things worse.

" **Captain?"**

The Irish tone pulled him away from his thoughts.

" **Yes, Nurse?"**

" **Are you going to the dance tonight?"**

Patrick had forgotten about that. The hospital held a dance for medical personnel and patients to celebrate Christmas and to have a good time. There would be punch and food. Patrick was going to take the gorgeous Nurse Bianchi, but her obtaining the flu put a stop to that.

" **Well, actually. I was planning on giving it a miss. Parties aren't really my thing."  
"You haven't got a date, have you?"**

Patrick was a little surprised. Nurse O'Beirne was very observant and called him out within a few seconds. His cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

Nurse O'Beirne knew that she hit the nail on the head.

" **Would you like to come with me, Captain?"**

Patrick's face was now a deep berry red. He had never been propositioned before. It was always the other way around.

" **Well, um…. Ok."**

" **Great, I'll see you at 6."**

" **Right."**

As Nurse O'Beirne walked off to get the tea trolley, Patrick couldn't cease blushing. Nurse O'Beirne was very alluring, indeed and his biological urge was being whipped into a frenzy. He was looking forward to it.

…..

Patrick slicked his hair back with a dollop of Brylcreem. It had been a while since he had a date with a lass, so he was pulling out all the stops. He dabbed some mint balm on the pressure points of his neck and wrists. A white blouse and black tie were draped over a chair next to his bed.

He felt joyous. It seemed forever since he last felt like that. He was going to embrace life again and nothing was going to stop him.

Of course, he wouldn't dream of taking it further with Nurse O'Beirne without her express permission. He never stopped thinking about her. She took Nurse Bianchi's place in his fantasies.

How he dreamed of holding her in her arms and caressing every inch of her body. To undo her blouse and cup her soft and supple breasts. To unbutton his trousers and her skirt and make sensual, soft and passionate sex. How it filled him with intense pleasure. The feel of his penis hardening and becoming wider with every thought. His mind stopped. He looked down and saw the damp patch on the trousers.

 _Shit._

He trained himself not to get too carried with his carnal thoughts but, occasionally, the beast won.

He remembered that he had another pair of trousers in his closet and went to get them. With a quick change and finishing touches, Patrick was ready to take on the night. He made his way, feeling quite excited for the dance. He imagined that Nurse O'Beirne would look a dream.

As he made his way to the venue, which was the canteen, he could hear old records playing. Some he recognised but the others seem strange to him. He opened the door and saw a transformation of the canteen. It looked like a winter wonderland. There was fake snow on the windowsills, little wooden reindeers in the corner and sprigs of mistletoe in the service huts and on the beams.

There, amongst the crowd, he saw an angel. Nurse O'Beirne was wearing a gold dress with her hair coiffed into her curls. Patrick's heart was racing, and his nether regions were throbbing.

She noticed he was eyeing her, so she moved gracefully towards him.

" **You look amazing, Nurse."**

She blushed and turned her head slightly, the light catching her hair at the right angle.

" **Please, call me Rose. It is after work hours."**

" **Very well then, Rose. I'm Patrick."**

He took her hand and kissed it, prompting a giggle from Rose. Patrick led Rose to the dancefloor, holding her hand.

" **May I have the honour of this dance, Rose?"**

Rose smiled.

" **You may."**

Patrick placed his right hand around her waist, holding her left in his other hand. The music was slow tempo. Patrick led the dance, moving slowly and intimately. They became trapped in their own little world, thinking of nothing else but the moment.

After a few dances, Patrick was getting a little hot and offered Rose a drink. She had a water and he had a small glass of punch.

There were chairs by the service hatch, so they occupied them. Patrick was curious as to what made Rose come to a place like this. He didn't wish to be forward.

" **So, what made you join the war effort, Patrick?"  
"Well, I like helping people and I felt it was my duty to help the sick and unfortunate who have been caught up in this dreadful mess. How about yourself?"  
"Ever since I was a small girl, I always loved playing doctors and nurses. I wanted to make a real difference to people's lives."**

She looked at Patrick. When she first saw him from a distance, he seemed quite pleasant. But now, as she was just inches away from him, she saw a very attractive, handsome gentleman.

Something in the air caught her eye, when she focused, she let out a hearty laugh, leaving Patrick a little puzzled.

" **What's the matter, Rose?"  
"Look up."**

Patrick did as he was instructed and saw a sprig of mistletoe hanging between them.

Their cheeks grew redder and redder.

" **Do you mind if we…?"**

" **Not at all. Tis the season and all that."**

Patrick leant forward gently so not to scare Rose. She met him in the middle. Their lips embraced. Rose put her hand on Patrick's neck, pulling him closer. He put his hand on her waist. Minutes passed. Patrick recoiled a touch, to admire Rose's beauty. A fitting name for a gorgeous woman like her.

" **Merry Christmas, Rose."  
"Merry Christmas, Patrick."**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: My Friend:**

The spring sun burst through the curtains, stirring Patrick from his slumber. How he hated the mornings. He was fully indulging himself in his fantasies concerning Nurse O'Beirne. The flooded sheets every night was proof of that. He sighed tirelessly. Just when he thought the battle would be over, the Jerrys turned up at the start of the year. Apparently, Hitler had no choice but to rescue his allies or else he would risk the opportunity to take the oil fields in Arabia. Now there was likely to be more casualties, more deaths and more destruction. Patrick just wished for it to end.

There were days where he felt on top of the world. He would jump out of bed and sing to his heart's content. Other days, he lacked the energy to throw the blanket back. He didn't feel like facing the never-ending cycle of death and pain. Hopefully, now that he was in a loving and caring relationship with Nurse O'Beirne, things would be more on the brighter side of life. However, there was a dark cloud lurking over. He was worried about Timmy. In recent weeks, his mental health was deteriorating. He would scream, startling the staff and the patients, saying that he wanted to die as his life was pointless, then he would proceed to bang his head against the desk in a masochistic frenzy, breaking his nose and cackling maniacally.

As the staff were obviously concerned about the state of his well-being, they moved him to a private room and fitted restraints on him. Patrick was fearful of what would happen to him. There was talk of moving Timmy to a mental institution where they would help him. Patrick knew that was a blatant lie. His uncle was in one after the Great War. He heard how there was bars in the windows to prevent them from escaping. The inmates had their heads shaved and they weren't treated like people at all. His uncle had electronarcosis therapy so intense that he lost the ability to speak. Due to his time there and the horrific memories of the war, he committed suicide by walking in front of a train. Patrick remembered how devastated his mother was every time it was the anniversary of his death. She said that he didn't deserve what happened to him. Like her husband, she believed that too many lives were sacrificed for nothing.

As Patrick managed to drag himself out of bed, his mind was fraught with worry and fear. He felt a desperate urge to cut but he pulled himself away from that train of thought and started to think of a future with Rose. Courting her was a wonderful experience. They went for walks in the hospital grounds and had lunch together. She made him laugh with tales of her childhood exploits with her cousins. He told her about Liverpool, his parents and how the lasses went on heat every time he walked past them.

He felt that everything was going to be ok.

…..

" **Captain, come quick!"**

The nurse rushed over to Patrick, panting, sweat running down her face.

Patrick could see the nurse was clearly distressed.

" **What's the matter, Nurse?"**

The nurse needed a few minutes to get her breath back. Once her breathing was even, she looked at Patrick.

" **It's Mr Hawkins. He's broken free of his restraints and is holding two orderlies hostage with a knife."**

 _Oh no._

" **Right, I'm on my way. Nurse, prepare a sedative, just in case."**

" **Of course, Captain."**

Patrick dashed to the private room where Timmy was, He peeked through the wall and saw the orderlies up against the wall. One had a split lip and a black eye. The other had a deep cut to his face, which didn't stop bleeding through the handkerchief he was holding against it.

Patrick turned the handle to get inside but it was locked. He saw Timmy on the other end of the room, wielding the knife. His clothes were partially drenched in blood from when he wounded the orderly. Patrick didn't see Timmy. His eyes were wild and demonic, like he made a deal with the Devil himself. His face was emotionless. Patrick had no idea what state he was in, so he had to approach this carefully and calmly.

" **SO, YOU THINK I'M A FUCKING FREAK, DO YOU?! BECAUSE I CAN'T SHAG WOMEN?! YOU MAKE ME SICK!"**

Timmy looked menacingly at the orderlies. Patrick saw the fear in their eyes. He could smell it coming off them. This wasn't good.

" **YOU ORDERLIES THINK YOU'RE GOD'S FUCKING GIFT TO THIS HELLHOLE, JUST BECAUSE YOU PUSH PEOPLE AROUND ON THOSE FUCKING METAL DEATH TRAPS!"**

" **But that's not true, Mr Hawkins…"**

" **BELT IT!"**

Timmy lunged towards the orderly and held the knife against his throat.

" **I'M IN CONTROL NOW, NOT YOU OR YOUR PANSY MATE. I DECIDE HOW THIS ENDS. ME AND NO FUCKER ELSE!"**

Patrick knew that there was two ways this could go. Either with Timmy or the orderlies dead.

He gently rapt on the door to get Timmy's attention.

However it seemed to angered him further.

" **WHO THE FUCK IS IT?"**

 _Easy does it, Patrick._

" **Timmy, it's Patrick."**

Timmy moved away from the orderly, who collapsed in relief.

" **Patrick?"**

Patrick noticed that Timmy's voice became calmer. He hoped that it wasn't going to be a temporary reprieve.

" **Could you let me in, Timmy? I want to help you."**

Timmy stared at Patrick, who felt the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end. He had never seen Timmy like this before.

" **You can't help me, Patrick. You can't give me back my masculinity. It's lost, gone."**

Timmy's words rang true. Patrick couldn't give it back, but he would least try and help him. He had to try and keep him calm until the nurse came with the sedative. He hated the thought of putting Timmy to sleep but it was for his own good.

" **Can I come in, Timmy?"**

Timmy took the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door, allowing Patrick access to the room. Patrick kept a good distance away from Timmy, in case he was next in the firing line.

Timmy started to laugh. At first, it was so quiet that it was inaudible to Patrick's ears. Eventually, it built up and up until Timmy unleashed a high pitched, repetitive cackling. He stopped and pointed to a set of instruments on the table.

" **Do you know what they are, Patrick?"**

Patrick looked at the instruments. There was a leucotome, a syringe with what looked to be a sedative and a dish. He could feel his heart in his mouth. He fully knew what the instruments were used for. It made him sick that the powers that be would even think that this was an appropriate way to deal with Timmy's behaviour.

" **THEY…"**

Timmy said harshly, brandishing his knife towards the orderlies.

" **WERE GOING TO TURN ME INTO A VEGETABLE. A FUCKING VEGETABLE, PATRICK!"**

" **The hospital is just concerned, Timmy. In case you hurt yourself or other people."**

" **CONCERNED?! THE CUNTS IN SUITS DON'T CARE ABOUT US, PATRICK. TO THEM, WE'RE JUST STATISTICS. WELL, I SAY FUCK THEM!"**

Patrick was increasingly fearful for Timmy's state of mind. The room was in stalemate. If either him or the orderlies attempt to get the knife off Timmy, the situation could turn very quickly.

Patrick reached out his hand and edged slowly towards Timmy.

" **Timmy, I want you to give me the knife."**

" **Timmy? Timmy was a man, who had girlfriends left, right and centre. Whose penis felt warm and unwavering every time he saw a girl."**

Tears escaped through Timmy's eyes. The knife dropped to his side as he cried. His shoulders shook as he let all the emotion out that he kept inside since the day he was brought to Dawla.

" **I can't take it anymore, Patrick. I can't."**

The words managed to break through the bawling. He raised the knife and held it against his throat.

" **Timmy, please give me the knife. There are people who can help and support you."**

" **No they can't. It's not as if they can give me a full transplant."**

Timmy firmly pressed the knife against his neck, allowing a few drops of blood to drip onto his clothing.

" **Timmy, killing yourself isn't the answer."**

Patrick moved closer to Timmy. He had to make Timmy see sense, that there was a way forward from this.

" **What choice do I have? I see these gorgeous nurses and I can't feel anything. What use am I, Patrick?**

" **It doesn't have to be like this, Timmy."**

" **I'm sorry, Patrick."**

Patrick could see Timmy making a deep incision across his throat, blood spilling over onto his clothes.

" **No. TIMMY, NO!"**

The guttural choking rang in Patrick's ears as Timmy finished the incision. A main artery was cut so the blood sprayed onto Patrick and the walls. Timmy collapsed onto the floor with the knife beside him.

Patrick looked at his hands in horror. His friend's blood covered him completely. He slumped onto the floor, looking over Timmy's lifeless corpse.

" **Timmy. Oh Timmy."**

He turned away. He couldn't face it to look at him. The orderlies went outside to get help. Patrick got up, walked outside and stared through the window. His friend was gone, and nothing would bring him back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Moving Forward**

Rose was beside herself with worry. The Colonel offered Patrick the opportunity to go on compassionate leave, but Patrick refused. Deep down, Rose saw that he was hurting over the loss. She thought that he didn't allow himself time to grieve and instead, he just carried on working. She loved Patrick dearly and was scared for his well-being. After the incident, she found him, still drenched in blood, on the floor crying. She didn't care about getting her dress dirty, so she kneeled down and embraced him in her arms. At first, he was a little hesitant, but he eventually gave in and wrapped his arms around her waist. He snuggled into her neck to muffle the cries. Rose rocked their bodies back and forth to soothe Patrick. After what seemed like an hour, she unravelled herself from Patrick and cradled his face. She saw the face of a man who struggled to keep it together and who was scared to show how he really felt.

She told Patrick that she wouldn't think any less of him for being open with his feelings. Patrick didn't respond but kissed her with his blood-stained lips. The overwhelming stench nearly made her sick, but she pushed through. Some days, he never came to work, preferring his own company and locking himself in the bedroom. Other days, it seemed that there was nothing wrong with him, he was as happy and as jolly as can be. She knew that he was just pretending. She saw the scars on his arms and neck. She did not dare to confront him in case he got all defensive. He would tell her in his own time.

She wanted to help him so badly. But how could she if she didn't know what was wrong. She could bless Patrick some days and blast him on others. Yesterday, he barely spoke to her at all, other than to prescribe Corporal Wader with antibiotics for a chest infection and to change Sergeant Porter's dressings. She felt that Patrick was blowing hot and cold all the time. It drove her up the wall, but she couldn't bear to see him suffering. She was at a loose end. She hoped that, one day, Patrick would divulge to her his torment.

….

The sound of the birds singing became her alarm clock. It reminded her of home where the nightingales woke her every morning. How she missed their sweet sound. She was torn between telling the Colonel about Patrick or leaving it be as it was none of her business. She wanted the best for Patrick, but she didn't know the right way to go about it. He was being so secretive, like he couldn't trust her. She had to let him know that she was open to whatever he had to discuss. As she got dressed and placed her crimson locks in an updo, she looked in the mirror to observe the black rings around her eyes. She worried about him so much, she barely got any sleep. She had dreams about him getting worse, to the extent that his voices in his head would tell him to kill her. She couldn't live like this, in the fear of a man she loved deeply. She would get to the bottom of it, no matter what.

In the back of her mind, she knew that it wasn't really her place to know Patrick's every secret, but she was curious as to what he was hiding. She checked the rota last night and she would be working alongside him today, which was good. She smoothed down her uniform to make sure that no creases lingered in it. Rose made her way to the door and locked it behind her. She understood of the consequences of broaching a delicate subject, but she had to know, if not for her sake, then for Patrick's. She began walking to the ward, dreading what Patrick might do. But she was a strong lass and would take anything he had to throw at her.

…

Rose realised that Patrick wasn't over Timmy's death. The bruise on her face was proof of that. She thought him ungrateful. She was only trying to help him. She laid on the bed in despair, feeling emotions ranging from angry to tearful. The day didn't go as well as she hoped. She was too strong minded for her own good. She shouldn't have pushed Patrick that far. The whole ward heard their argument. She couldn't contain her frustration anymore and she unleashed all on Patrick, telling him how tired she was of him being hot and cold all the time, that why couldn't he just tell her what was the matter with him and that he was an ungrateful son of a bitch.

Patrick retorted, saying that it wasn't any of her business of how he feels. She explained to Patrick that she cared about him and that she didn't want to see him suffering. She could feel the Turner Temper emanating from Patrick. She knew that it wasn't a good sign. She could handle the remarks he called her. She had worse. But it was the spite she couldn't bear. Him spewing venomous words like a cobra. Digging hard into her thick skin. He made her feel small and weak. She hated that. Eventually, in her anger, she told Patrick that she would find a real man who wasn't cowardly or stupid enough to hide his true feelings. The last thing she saw was Patrick coming straight towards with his fist drawn. When she woke up, she was in her room. She had a searing pain on the left side of her face. She felt down her underwear, breathed a sigh of relief and removed her hand. Thank goodness that Patrick never went that far in his berserk rage. She would have clacked him one. Even though he didn't go to that extent, she still felt violated. She wasn't sure whether or not Patrick loved her after all.

She learnt that, after Patrick knocked her out, Colonel Anderson bellowed at Patrick to get in his office. The nurses were very curious into what the Colonel had to say so they eavesdrop at the door. Apparently, the Colonel was disappointed in Patrick's behaviour and conduct and forced him to have a week's leave back in Italy. He also said that, if it wasn't for his credentials, he would have inflicted a harsher punishment. The week's leave would be effective immediately. He ordered to pack his things as the cab would be outside in 10 minutes. He asked to check to see if she was alright, but the Colonel refused, citing the fact the fact that he couldn't control his temper and that he could make things worse.

Rose decided that she needed a nice warm bath, to make herself feel better. The Colonel popped up to her room, checking to see if she was alright and that she could have the rest of the week off. She let her hair down, letting her crimson curls fall around her face. She grabbed her cream dressing gown from the hook on the door, her blue China inspired silk pyjamas and matching slippers and made her way to the bathroom. She would request a transfer home from the Colonel as she felt that she couldn't cope with seeing death and suffering every day and that she would be more useful helping those caught up in the London Blitz. As her naked body hit the warm bath, she could feel her anxiety and fears washing away with the water. Her soaked locks were sticking to the back of her neck. She grabbed the coconut and ylang-ylang soap and rubbed it into her hands to make a froth. As she worked her hair into a sweet-smelling lather, she thought that the way Patrick treated was uncalled for. Granted, the blame was partly at her door, but she was worried about him, but he couldn't see that. All he saw was her interfering with matters that didn't concern her. She cursed him, calling him a close-minded brute who thought only with his penis and not his mind.

…..

 _25th May 1941_

 _Dearest Patrick,_

 _I hope you are enjoying your leave of absence from the hospital. It is with great pain and sadness that I release you from our relationship. I can't do it anymore. I can't try and help someone who won't accept it. You have made your feelings perfectly clear on the matter. The Colonel has approved of my request for a transfer home to England as I feel that I will be of more use there because of the Blitz. Your treatment of me was uncalled for but I understand that you had your fair share of loss recently._

 _I don't wish for any bad blood between us. I just think that it is fair if we both go our separate ways. You will always be in my thoughts and dreams, Patrick. And I will never forget you. I hope that we can still be friends, but you destroyed all possibility of taking our relationship further. I don't know. Maybe it was too much for me to even think of a future with you. I don't blame you for what happened, and I will admit that I was at fault as well. But you can't keep these feelings bottled up. They will threaten to consume you and destroy you. Please get help, Patrick. No one will say that you're weak. You need to deal with your pain and grief in a different and healthy way._

 _Some days, I thought our relationship was real but now I see it was built on lack of trust and secrecy. I pray that, one day, you will open up to those who love and care about you. By opening up, it will help you to accept the things that happened to you and will give you closure._

 _You may think it harsh of me for saying this, but you know me, I say it as it is. I should never have shouted out at you. I was stuck in between a rock and a hard place. I wanted to know where I stood. It was clear that it wasn't by your side. Maybe the week's leave will help to relax and get rid of those thoughts of harming yourself. I've seen the scars, Patrick. Considering how deep they are, I'm surprised you haven't killed yourself. You are worth more than this. Yes, deaths every day is bound to get anyone depressed but we, as medical staff, have a duty to our patients. Sometimes, you just have to detach yourself from caring about the patient too much. I know it's hard, but you have to try, Patrick._

 _I will come to Liverpool one day. To see the sights and buildings that you told me about. I might go shopping with the girls. To try the bread and cakes. I'll go back to Ireland the size of a house._

 _Anyway, the cab will be here soon to take me to the airport and back home. The flight is 3 hours, which isn't too bad. It will be nice to see my parents and siblings again. Even though the sea air does wonders for the breathing and the skin. Like Dorothy said, there is no place like home._

 _May the Good Lord bless you and keep you, Patrick._

 _Yours faithfully_

 _Rose._


	10. Chapter 10

The sun basked him in its warmth. The crashing of the waves against the shore were music to his ears. A cream parasol partially covered as he wanted a nice tan but not one that made him a lobster. Rose's letter was by his side, recently stained by his tears. He had been a bastard to her. A complete and utter fucking bastard. She loved him dearly and he pushed her away. He felt so angry with himself. He treated her in a way that he detested. He understood her decision. He would never hold it against her. He knew that Rose was trying to help him but in his stupid pride, he thought that she knew nothing about what he was going through. He couldn't even try and fathom out what the hell possessed him to punch her. Perhaps it was a sign. A sign that his mental state was getting out of control. Maybe he, like Rose suggested, should get help.

The imposed leave in Gozo turned out to be beneficial to him. It was nice to take a break from the dreariness and death from Malta. He removed his dark sunglasses and glanced at the crystal waters of the pool. It looked very inviting. The hotel wasn't heaving with visitors but there were people around. He stood up from his deckchair and finished off the remains of the ice-cold lemonade he got from the stand on his way to the pool. It was quite refreshing. He grabbed a pot of Glacier Cream from his holdall and applied to his arms, chest, face and legs. The lotion felt cool against his hot skin. He was careful to not get any on his blue swimming trunks. They were a little more snug than he liked but he got them at a good price. He walked to the tempting waters, being careful not to slip on the tiled floor. As his foot hit the icy water, he let out a small yelp as the cold liquid began to freeze his nerves. However, he conquered the frozen beast and went further into the depths until the water was up to his Grecian God sculpted chest. He glanced over at the horizon. He felt so small, compared to the deep spa pool. He felt so much better in himself. Instead of harming, he chose to write music as he had a stint in the local tavern as its piano player. It had been a while since he played but he was excellent. He hoped that a child of his would have the same interest.

The Colonel telephoned him to say that his plane would be coming at 9:00 am sharp tomorrow morning so he had better be ready. Patrick was looking forward to it. All of his anxiety and worry were washed away by the sea. He felt like a new man. Earlier, he had noticed the raven-haired beauty that he saw when he first arrived. She was still bewitching as ever, wearing a light-blue low-cut top, long white skirt and golden bandana. The fire in his loins was stoked once more. She walked past him and smiled, which aroused him further. Before the fire got out of control, he placed his book of medical mysteries over it, to avoid embarrassing the young lady.

After a while in the ocean, he walked out, feeling chilly as the wind blew over him. As he went to collect his things, he couldn't help but feel that something was coming. An ill omen. He pushed it aside. He always seemed to find the worst in things. He headed back to the hotel to pack his things. Tomorrow would be a fresh start.

….

" **Ah, Captain Turner. Back to join us, I see?"**

The booming of the Colonel's voice welcomed Patrick as he headed down to the ward. He noted that the nurses looked as gorgeous as ever. He saw some new faces, which was delightful. There was nothing better than new blood on the ward. The Colonel was chatting to one of the doctors. As he dismissed the doctor, he offered Patrick a handshake.

" **So glad to see you again, Turner. How are you?"**

" **Never been better, sir. It was just the thing I needed."**

" **Excellent. Now, I hope we don't witness your temper again, Captain."**

" **You won't, sir. While I was away, I found something to help with my feelings."**

The Colonel smiled. Patrick had an inkling of what the Colonel thought the something was. Alas, he would be sadly mistaken.

" **And what was it, Captain?"**

" **Music, sir."**

" **Music?"**

" **Yes, sir. Back in Liverpool, I played the piano and wrote my own music. It was wonderful to have the time to do it again."**

" **That is wonderful news, Turner. I'm glad to have you back.**

Patrick nodded. Even though he had been gone for a week, he missed the work and banter with the other staff. Of course, there were many in the hospital that reminded him of Rose. The flowers in the windows, the green grass, even the music playing in the background. He deeply regretted his treatment of her, not to mention the spite he used against her. He wrote to apologise and that he was wrong to treat her in the way that he did. He told her that he completely understood her choice and asked her if they could still be friends. She agreed and they both promised to send each other letters. It uplifted his mood even more. He also told her about his feelings, not all of them as he didn't wish to overwhelm her. She empathised with him greatly and told him that he was a brave man. She told him about the devastation in London and Liverpool. She was seconded to Liverpool as they had enough workers in London. Tears streamed from Patrick's eyes as she mentioned that the street he lived with his parents had been destroyed entirely. However, she had seen his father and told him that his son was doing alright.

She ended the letter by saying she was due on duty any minute. Patrick could breathe easy. He felt a huge weight being lifted when he started to write to her. It felt as if nothing could bring him down.

Anyway, he had a job to do and patients to treat. The first one on the list was a young mother carrying triplets. He was quite excited as there was nothing more heart-warming than welcoming new life.

…..

The trees were swaying violently as the wind was picking up. Patrick sensed that a storm was coming. He was outside in the designated smoking area, having a puff of his Henley's. The birth went quite well. The firstborn was quite stubborn as it refused to budge but, with some help, it came out of the canal with ease. The second came out with no trouble but the third was breached so Patrick had to do an ECV by applying pressure on her abdomen. After a while, the baby was turned the right way and was delivered safely. Both the woman and her husband were overjoyed that all three were healthy. There was two girls and a boy. Patrick placed them in the trolleys and placed them near the mother's side. To Patrick, it was the best feeling in the world.

As he finished the cigarette, he reflected on his recent experiences. Some were good, others were quite bad. But they were all shaping him as an individual. He had the knowledge of things that he had never known before. He walked up back to the ward, leaving the blustery wind behind. A metallic scent offended his nostrils. It smelt like blood. So bitter. The first thought to cross his mind was that some poor bugger was bleeding out somewhere. He sprinted towards the ward. He pushed back the doors to find that the room was completely clean. Where was it coming from?

" **Excuse me, Nurse?"**

" **Yes, Captain?"**

" **Can you smell blood?"**

The nurse shot him a puzzled look.

" **There's no smell of blood, Captain."**

" **But there must be. I can virtually taste on my tongue."**

Patrick looked around, panic stricken. There was no blood on the wards, no spillage anywhere. He was certain that he could smell it.

" **Are you alright, Captain?"**

Patrick was unsure on how to answer that. Physically, he was alright. Mentally, he had no idea, Surely his mind wasn't playing tricks on him?

" **I'm... I'm alright, Nurse. Just a little tired."**

Patrick looked at the nurse. For some reason, he couldn't see the nurse's face, for it was all twisted and distorted. He took a step back, worrying the nurse.

" **Is everything alright?"**

The Colonel had witnessed the conversation between Patrick and the nurse. He was fearful for Patrick's mind.

" **I think there's something wrong with the Captain, sir."**

The Colonel could see that Patrick was on the verge of collapse. Patrick's feet gave way from underneath him, the colonel lunging forward to catch him.

" **I'm alright, sir. It's just the nerves from the flight.**

" **As well as that may be, Turner, you're coming into my office."**

" **But sir …"**

" **But nothing, man. That's an order."**

The Colonel and the nurse helped Patrick back up on his feet. The Colonel placed Patrick's left arm around his neck and placed his other hand underneath Patrick's right arm to keep him upright. He dragged Patrick to his office and dropped him on the leather couch, placing a pillow underneath his head. He poured a glass of the finest brandy and gave it to Patrick to drink.

" **It will help with your nerves."**

" **Thank you, sir."**

The Colonel grabbed a chair and placed it opposite Patrick. He wasn't the type to leave things unsaid.

" **Are you alright, Turner?"**

" **Yes, sir. Just shaken."**

" **We both know that isn't true."**

Patrick understood. He had a feeling that nothing would escape the Colonel's all-seeing eye. He looked down at the glass of amber nectar. He didn't want to talk about it, but he soon realised that the Colonel was going to make him.

" **It's better to get things off your chest, Turner. You would feel a lot better for it..."**

" **I know, sir."  
"Well?"**

Patrick sighed. He wasn't one to divulge how he was feeling. It was the pride in him. No man wants to tell anyone that they are suffering and that they couldn't cope with what was expected of them.

" **It's just, there's so much death. I mean, occasionally, we have a birth or two, but the cycle of death never ends. It just gets me down."**

" **And causes you to hurt yourself?"**

Patrick stared at the Colonel in disbelief.

" **How did you know?"**

" **Nurse O'Beirne told me. She was worried to death about you. She just wanted to help."**

Patrick went silent. He felt even worse about her. She was looking out for him and he had no idea. The guilt of hurting her didn't lighten his mood.

" **I see. Don't worry about me, sir. It's just a phase. It will go in time."**

" **I hope, for your sake, it does, Patrick."**

Patrick smiled. He had always regarded the Colonel as a friend and colleague, rather than his boss. The Colonel felt the same, seeing Patrick as more of a younger brother. Patrick gulped down the brandy, feeling its fiery taste burning down his throat and hitting his stomach.

" **That brandy was just what I needed, sir. Thank you."**

" **You're welcome. Are you feeling much better?"**

" **Yes, sir."**

" **Well, take it easy. If anything like that happens again, inform me immediately."**

" **I will, sir."**

" **Good. If you feel up to it, you can resume your duties."**

Patrick lifted himself from the sofa and placed the glass on the Colonel's desk.

" **Right, I'll go back now, sir."  
"Alright, Patrick. Just be careful."**

Patrick moved to the door and left the room. The Colonel's heart was filled with dread. To him, Patrick was barely hanging on and could go off at any minute. He could easily remove him from duty permanently, but he saw how dedicated Patrick was to his job and to his patients. He just hoped that Patrick would hold on to his sanity long enough so that he wouldn't harm others.


	11. Chapter 11

The news that Germany had withdrawn their forces from targeting the island, left the hospital in a state of celebration. Because of this, the Colonel announced that there would be a celebration tea open to everyone that afternoon so the lunch shift would be finished earlier. Patrick was quite relieved at the news. At least work could begin on trying to rebuild the ports and town. Patrick heard the news from one of the other doctors who came to his room. His mental health was fluctuating, some days he was managing, others, he was scared of his own shadow. It felt like he was trapped within a maze constructed from his own mind. However, with the help of the technique he had learned on his leave about writing his own music, he was on an even keel. He felt like the old Patrick again, in every way possible. Everyone hoped that this was a turning point for Patrick after all that had happened to him.

It seemed that he had put everything behind him, which was brilliant. Birds were singing for the first time since the bombardment began. It reminded Patrick of home and how it used to be; safe, loving and caring. The bombs put a stop to that instantly. He knew that both his parents would be proud of him. He had a letter from his father, saying that Liverpool was starting to rebuild from the Blitz and that he was perfectly safe. Patrick dreaded to think how more fractured his mind would be if anything happened to his father.

He romanced a few nurses but kept it only to flirtatious banter. Rose had his heart, but he had broken hers. He often dreamed of what things could have been if he had just been honest with her. He knew he couldn't keep pining after her. When she wrote to say that she was seeing someone else, he wasn't jealous or angry. He was genuinely happy for her. He knew that the man she doted on would give her a good life.

The Colonel was impressed in the change of Patrick's behaviour. In the face of difficulty and tragedy, Patrick had shown great courage though, admittedly, he had a few blips. The Colonel was so eager to promote Patrick to Major. He would do it within a heartbeat. However, due to recent events, he decided to wait until Patrick had stabilized enough to not warrant further observation. He realised that the time would be coming soon enough.

….

Patrick was writing a piano version of Canon in D Major to relax him whenever he got stressed. Music always seemed to pacify him, ever since he was a baby and his mother's lullaby soothed him to sleep when he was restless. He had a very good morning. The surgeries went well, a few touch and go cases in which, thankfully, the patients managed to pull through. There was also a couple of births too, which uplifted Patrick's spirits immensely.

He found the babies to be very adorable and he developed a longing for a child of his own. He knew, of course that, in order to have a child, he would have to find the right woman. Seeing the little darlings in the cots beside their mother melted his heart. As he wrapped them in blankets to keep them warm and took them into his arms, holding their delicate bodies next to his chest. The new-borns brought light into the world and banished the negative thoughts from Patrick's mind.

It was nice to have some time to himself. He volunteered to work the night shift, as when he wasn't dealing with the patients, he could use the time to finish his paperwork. The Colonel was a bit surprised as Patrick had always worked days, but he understood the need for a change of pace, so he agreed. Because of this, the Colonel allowed Patrick to have the next day off, which pleased him greatly. He was thinking of helping the townspeople finish rebuilding what the Axis had destroyed. There was a group of volunteers from the hospital who go out and deliver provisions for the people, such as food, water, clothes and supplies. They have made excellent progress. The school was nearly completed for the children as before they had to teach in a large tent with scraps of carpet placed all over to make a floor.

The Colonel was busier than usual, for the Air Commodore was coming to inspect the damage to the airfields and workshops. He would be paying a visit to the hospital to see how well they looked after the patients and that hygiene standards were met. The staff made sure that the hospital was as spotless as they could get it and that nothing was out of place. Before Patrick made his way to his room, the Colonel told him that he wanted him to be part of the group showing the Commodore around when he arrived at 11:00am.

Patrick checked the clock in his room. It was 10:30. He finished writing the last scale and put on his doctor's coat. It would look terrible if he turned up late in front of the Commodore. The Colonel wouldn't forgive him.

Nothing could ever stop Patrick from thinking negative thoughts but at least he had a way to deal with them. However, sometimes the thoughts would win. As he made his way to the reception, he recalled the time where he found himself on the hospital roof. This was a few hours after the incident with Timmy. He felt like a failure that he couldn't even save his best friend, let alone anyone else. Luckily, the Colonel and a few members of staff, including Rose, got to him in time, otherwise he would have jumped. He was in a better place now and hoped that it would be permanent. He saw the Colonel, along with other doctors and nurses, making sure that they all looked tidy and presentable. He wanted to set a good example as the Commodore was a good friend of his. They played bridge together.

The Colonel found the Commodore a bit stuck up and condescending but, at other times, he was quite approachable. A few years prior, they had a feud as the Colonel was getting too close to the Commodore's wife. But when Colonel Anderson explained that he was teaching her to dance, the Commodore apologised and the two were friends again. Deeply, however, the Colonel held a resentment for the Commodore as he had an eye for Belle. They were to be engaged until the Commodore came with his wealth, privileges and status and stole her away from him. However, the Colonel knew a few secrets that the Commodore wanted to be kept hidden. Of course, if these skeletons were to be let loose from the closet, it could ruin his career and marriage.

Because of this, the Commodore was always dancing to the Colonel's tune. At times, he grew tired and sick of it all. The whole thing drove him to sickness and, at times, severe depression and mental health issues. He thought of how Belle would be better off without him to spare her the shame of being the wife of a man, who solicits men to play horizontal polo, who takes bribes and who is corrupt enough to put the Devil to shame.

Over the last 10 years, the Colonel had reigned in his blackmailing tendencies so the Commodore could breathe again. The Colonel stated the reason was that Belle was getting suspicious as to why large amounts of money were being drawn from his account and why the Commodore was behaving strangely.

The Colonel hated seeing Belle upset, which was the real reason he stopped. Even though she was with someone else, he still loved her. She loved him too but couldn't act on it for fear of her husband finding out and beating her. He knew that the Commodore had a very violent temper. He remembered one instance in which the Commodore beat Belle so severely, she could barely stand. He violated her, just because he could. He saw Belle not as his wife, but as his property and possession. It made the Colonel see red.

Patrick knew of the tension between the two men, so he would be on tenterhooks like the rest of the staff. The doors flew open and a group of men entered the reception area. There were bodyguards to protect the Commodore from any harm although Patrick wagered that the Colonel was disappointed.

" **Ah, Stephen. So good to see you, my friend."**

The haughty tone of his voice began to grate on Patrick. The Commodore had only been here a few seconds and already, he was making his presence known.

" **It's good to see you too, James."**

Patrick detected a hint of sarcasm in the Colonel's voice. It was clear that he didn't want the Commodore there, but orders were orders. Patrick felt for poor Belle, having a dickhead for a husband. The circumstances must have spiralled out of her control.

" **Well then, shall we?"**

The Commodore had no patience so wanted to get this over with to fly home to his darling wife and accompany her to a dinner with the Prime Minister. The Colonel smiled, through gritted teeth and allowed the Commodore to lead the way. He told Patrick to keep an eye on him, lest he proved to be too much.

…..

His head rested on the soft, welcoming pillow. His body collapsing into the warm confines of the blanket. Patrick was so exhausted, yet his mind was still buzzing from the day's events. The Commodore didn't stop asking questions and most of them were common sense. He managed to throw a few jibes in regard to Patrick's background, which nearly resulted in Patrick breaking his jaw, had not the Colonel intervened. The Commodore made a hasty departure before Patrick had the time to rearrange his face. He was content in his upbringing and life. He wasn't going to listen to some toffee-nosed, posh, moronic fucker who saw the world through rose-tinted glasses. He didn't know what it was like to work hard graft and to earn a decent wage. Patrick hated that.

Despite a near brawl breaking out, the Colonel was deeply impressed with the conduct and behaviour that Patrick had shown. After the visit from the Commodore, the Colonel called Patrick in his office and asked him to take a seat while he poured them both a well-deserved glass of brandy. As Patrick took a large sip of the amber nectar, the Colonel commended him for his work over the past few years, despite battling personal demons. Because of how far he had come, he was going to promote Patrick to Major.

Patrick was absolutely speechless. He felt deeply honoured and touched that he had made a massive difference to the hospital and patient care. He thanked the Colonel. Talk then turned the visit and how neither of them could stand the egocentric fool. Patrick commented how he was surprised that the Commodore's head didn't get stuck on the way out as he was building himself up so much.

He was so happy, he felt on top of the world. As his body started to wind down and his eyes were getting heavy, he realised that he was an amazing person who could bring hope and happiness to the lives of patients.


	12. Chapter 12

_16th January 1944_

 _Dear Father,_

 _I've been posted to the Winter Line with the soldiers as they are mounting an attack against the Axis in the nearby town of Cassino tomorrow morning. The hospital isn't really a hospital, more like a massive tent with about 200 beds. The weather is absolutely freezing. As I am writing to you, I'm wearing my gloves and scarf. On the upside, the hills protect us from the wind, which is good._

 _There are about 20 members of staff, including myself, who are here to help with the casualties when they arise. The main objective for the soldiers is to break through to Rome. I can feel the tension in the air. The hospital is located near the outskirts of Cassino, so we are out of harm's way._

 _The abbey here is beautiful. It's such a shame that it will be encircled with destruction and death. The architecture has captured my interest. I believe it was built in the late 14th century. It's stunning how architects at the time could create such impressive masterpieces._

 _Thank you for the pack of cigarettes you sent me. At least I'll have something to keep me warm. It is good to hear that Liverpool is slowly getting back on its feet after all that's happened. I know that Mother is watching over me, to make sure that I come home safe. I sometimes feel her presence and it makes me content to know that she is there._

 _It is also nice to hear that you're doing ok. The house must get very lonely at times, but you have Aunt Claire staying with you, even though she could talk for England._

 _Take care of yourself and give my regards to the family_

 _Your loving son_

 _Patrick._

… _._

The cold wind rattled throughout the camp. Patrick was treating a soldier who stood on a rusty nail. The foreign object was 5 inches in length and went straight through the foot. Luckily it had avoided any major arteries, but the amount of blood splurging out was quite surprising. Patrick surmised that the nail must have nicked a few blood vessels as it went in. The first to do was to get the nail out, but that was proving to be difficult as the soldier couldn't stop moving.

" **Wills, will you try and keep still?! The more you move, the more blood you'll lose."**

Wills, a young boy of 18, was twisting in pain. It felt as if someone had plunged a piece of glass through his foot. It was unbearable.

" **I'm trying, sir but it hurts so much."**

Patrick could see the tears forming in the lad's eyes. He had to get this nail out before it turned septic. He took deep breaths and placed his hand on the foot.

" **Alright, Wills. I'm going to hold your foot with one hand while pulling the nail out slowly with the other. All I want you to do is to keep your leg still. Can you do that for me?"**

" **I'll try, sir.**

Patrick smiled, putting Wills at ease.

" **Good lad."**

Patrick gripped the foot tight, as Wills was taking deep breaths to calm himself.

" **Wills. On the count of three, I'm going to pull it out. OK?"**

" **OK."**

Patrick grabbed hold of the nail. His heart was racing. If he pulled it out too fast, it may cause more harm. He had to take it easy.

" **One, Two, Three!"**

Patrick, using all of his strength, pulled the nail as gently as he could. Wills, however, was gritting his teeth and holding to the sides of the bed.

After a while, the nail was removed and placed in a dish. Both Patrick and Wills breathed a sigh of relief. Gauze stopped the wound from bleeding and bandages were wrapped round it to secure it.

" **You will need bed rest, Wills, but only for a few days. One of the nurses will come around to give you a tetanus jab."**

" **Thank you, sir."**

Patrick left Wills to rest and made a note for him to have an injection. In a few hours' time, the British X Corps would go across the Garigliano River to attack the south west of the line. Patrick was surprised of the amount of men the Allies had. Soldiers from South Africa, the U.S, Australia and Canada, as well as independent armies had come to their aid.

He knew that he and the medical staff had to be on standby for any oncoming casualties. Most of their time was spent getting prepared. Making sure that they were stocked up on bandages, gauzes, surgical equipment, oxygen, anaesthetic. There was part of the tent that was separate from the rest as it was the theatre. One good thing was that there wasn't any mice or rats around to harbour any diseases that would infect any of the patients.

He hoped that there wouldn't be a large number of casualties and that the shock of the injuries wouldn't make him go into the state of mind that he had been in after Timmy died. So far, he had been doing quite well. He did have dark days, as does everyone, but he had more good days than bad.

Some of the nurses were quite beautiful, others looked as sour as anything. Alas, most nurses either had lovers, were married or engaged, which saddened Patrick a little. But saving lives was more important than his lust for buxom wenches, although they did help to take his mind of what was to come.

His breathing became fog in the cold air. He wanted the temperature to increase as he was getting too hot in his layers. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back and the fruits getting overly moist. He hated the feeling. He just wanted to strip off and let the air cool down his body. However, the commanding officer might reprimand him for public indecency, especially as there were women on the premises, who might be consumed with lust and passion if their eyes fell upon Patrick's muscular and toned physique. They would barely be able to contain themselves.

No, he wouldn't fully strip. He wanted to put his doctor coat on, but it was too thin. That's why he had wrapped himself in loads of layers. It was a huge weight on his body. The heat was stifling. He decided to ease the burden by just taking off one layer. He removed the snug scarf that was wound around his neck. He sighed in relief.

It was like the woollen tentacle was choking him to death. He placed the scarf on the table that became his desk and sat down. His legs needed to rest. He had been standing since daybreak. He needed a warm drink of something. Even though his muscles ached from the cold and tiredness, he lifted himself up and went to the makeshift canteen to get a cup of tea. He wrapped his cold hands around the hot mug. As he sipped the warm liquid, he pulled a face of disgust. It was very bland. Luckily, his father sent him a little something to make it more flavoursome. A bottle of Plantiac brandy that he got for Christmas. His father was more of a whisky man, so he posted it to Patrick, who kept it in his desk.

He opened the drawer, took out the bottle and unscrewed the lid. He poured just a dash of the amber liquid into the tea. Something to take the edge off. He put the lid back on and placed back it in the drawer before anyone could see. He lifted to his lips. The smell of brandy was delicious, the tones of honey shone through. His mouth touched the rim and the liquid ran to his lips. It tasted so much better.

" **HELP!"**

The sound made Patrick nearly drop his brandy infused tea. He placed it on the table and rushed to see what was going on. Outside of the tent was two men. One was carrying the other. The wounded man seemed to have been shot in the leg, but it required further inspection.

" **Let's get him to a bed. Quickly."**

The man did as he ordered and took his friend to the first bed that was closest and put him gently down and lifted his legs onto the soft mattress. Patrick prepared a needle of Thiamylal in order to relax the patient.

" **What's his name?"**

" **Jones, sir. I'm Bates.**

" **What happened?"**

" **We were advancing on the enemy, sir. I heard a scream and then I saw Jones on the ground, clutching his leg."**

" **Alright. Let's have a look at the damage."**

Patrick got the instruments required, including scissors, a bottle of ethanol, gauze, tweezers and a kidney dish. He gloved his hands and proceeded to cut Jones's trousers. As the trousers split into two, Patrick began to see the damage to the leg.

It wasn't a bullet.

Misshapen shards of shrapnel were deeply embedded in the flesh. Patrick could detect a slight putrid smell, which indicated that he needed to act fast. The pieces were in various sizes. He could get the small and medium pieces out but, in order to get the large pieces, the lad would have to go into surgery.

" **How old are you, Jones?"**

Jones was starting to go unconscious due to the loss of blood. Patrick tapped his face a little in order to keep him awake, but he kept going in and out. Patrick looked at his notes that was on the bedside. As he located the age of Jones, the result left him shook. He knew the conscription age was between 18 and 41. Jones was 16. Only a young boy. He had concerns on whether or not Jones was his real name. He would talk to him later in private.

" **Is he going to be alright, sir?"**

" **It's hard to say, for sure. But I will do my best."**

" **Thank you, sir."**

Bates went outside to get a cup of tea. Patrick got two porters to help him to take Jones to theatre. He didn't know what extent the damage that the shrapnel caused. But he would do his damndest to save the lad. For he wanted to know why he was here.

….

His head was all woozy. He could feel the bed spinning. The anaesthetic knocked a powerful punch. Even though he drifted in and out of consciousness, he was aware of what happened to him. He and his company were advancing to the south west line when the enemy caught them off guard and threw a grenade towards them. The shrapnel from it as well as pieces of rubble from the destroyed buildings became embedded. The carriers on site went to him, dragged him onto the stretcher and carried him to the hospital.

The anaesthesia began to wear off. His vision was blurry to start off, but it became crystal clear. He was curious to know how the surgery went and whether or not he would be a cripple. His curiosity getting the better of him, Jones lifted the blanket and was relieved to find that he had two legs, instead of one.

His parents had no idea that he joined up. No doubt that they were worried sick. He hated being stuck at home while the rest of the lads were out fighting. He wanted to get out there and help. His older brother was a doctor working in France. He was jealous that he was living in a different country, with different cultures and food. That's why he joined. Looking back now, he was a fool, consumed by his selfishness.

" **Ah, good. You're awake."**

Jones was startled. He didn't hear any footsteps coming towards him. He looked to his right and saw Patrick in a chair next to the bed.

" **Where am I, sir?"**

" **You're in the hospital tent, Jones."**

Jones attempted to sit himself upright, but he felt a burning pain in his leg and winced. Patrick took Jones from under the arms and lifted him up gently.

" **Take it easy, you just had major surgery."**

All the energy was drained out of the young lad as he collapsed back on the pillows.

" **Is me leg alright, sir?"**

" **Your leg is fine, lad. You have mild nerve damage but it's nothing physiotherapy can't cure."**

Jones's lips drew into a smile. He was lucky to have lived, unlike some of the other poor sods. Patrick knew that he had to ask him. Jones shouldn't even be here. By the look in his eyes, Jones had an inkling that Patrick knew the truth.

" **I had a look at your notes. It said that you were born in 1926. But you look much younger than that. That's not your real year of birth, is it lad?"**

Jones shook his head. Patrick understood. He just wanted to do it his bit for King and country, like the rest.

" **What is your year of birth, Jones?"**

The lad gulped. He had no idea what the army did to underage soldiers but the thought of what they could do scared him. He knew he couldn't lie to a superior. If he did, the consequences would be severe.

" **1928, sir."**

" **Making you 16?"**

Jones nodded. Patrick poured him a glass of Plantiac as he could see that the lad was shaking.

" **Here you are, son."**

He handed Jones the glass of brandy. Jones took the glass and proceeded to have a sip. He felt the liquid burning the back of his throat.

" **What are they going to do to me, sir?"**

Jones wanted to know where he stood and whether or not he should be saying his prayers.

" **Your parents will be notified and then you will be sent home."**

" **They're not going to give me a court martial or anything?"**

" **No. "**

Jones sighed a breath of relief. The last thing his parents would want was for him to be to be facing the firing squad.

" **Is Jones your real surname?"  
"No, it's Hallows."**

 _Hallows. Why does that sound familiar?_

" **Why did you lie, Hallows?"**

Tears were running his face. He brushed them aside with his sleeve.

" **I just wanted to be like my brother and see the world. He's a doctor in France. Alfie, his name is. He told me about you and how you looked after him when he was bullied at Altcar. "**

" **I remember. How is he?"**

" **He's doing alright. He wrote Mum and me old man a letter a few months ago. Dad's proud of him for being a doctor. It's just the fact that Alfie's a fairy that he's a bit iffy. He told us that he found someone else like him. I was well made up for him. Things like that don't bother me."**

" **Well, that's wonderful news."**

Patrick was pleased that Alfie was ok and that he managed to find love.

" **I will have to inform the commanding officer about you. He will then sort out transport so that you can go home. Your parents will be pleased to see you."**

" **They might be angry that I left without telling them. But they would be relieved that I came back safe."**

Patrick smiled. He left Hallows to rest while he went to inform the commanding officer. He was troubled that young lads like Hallows were lying about their age, just so they could fight on the front. They weren't mentally prepared for limbs flying everywhere, finding human remains and the horrific injuries that they would see. At least, he managed to save someone's child from being killed. As he was walking to the CO's tent, he saw dark clouds coming over the sky.

Hopefully, it wasn't a sign of ill omen.


	13. Chapter 13

Daffodils bloomed as a sign of new life, even though they weren't sheltered from the brutality of war. The cold weather didn't leave a trace of its icy grip on the battlefield. It was quickly replaced by sunshine, rain and the continuous noise of shells being hurled in the air and rapid rattle of guns.

The battle was not going well.

So far, soldiers had failed to capture the right side of the mountain. The New Zealanders had lost a commander, who had both his feet blown off, and morale was getting pretty low. The amount of men dead was astounding. Patrick and the other personnel were getting severely overwhelmed. The tent was packed with wounded soldiers. As the tent was at full capacity, the rest of them had to go outside. Screams of agony and painful groaning were really grating on Patrick. He cursed the lads for not being careful enough when advancing the enemy. There was so much to do, not enough hours in the day. There was no space to swing a cat as everywhere was covered with bodies.

A few of them were already dead and started to decompose. There was a lad who had started the bloating stage. His skin was pale green and mottled like marble. Eyes were bulging out of the sockets and flies were making a meal out of his orifices. The stench was thick in the air. Young lads with weak stomachs brought their lunch back up at the sight of it.

Another was in active decay and the soldiers were about 10 feet away from it. Fluid became a puddle surrounding the corpse. The features of the dead man were unrecognizable due to the insect activity. Skin was perforated all over. Face all caved in. It wasn't a pleasant view for any man to see, especially Patrick.

Dead bodies, he could handle. Decomposing ones, not so much, especially if they were getting juicy.

A small team of medical staff dug holes to throw the carcasses in, a few metres from the tent. Prayers were said for the fallen men by Father John. Patrick uttered a silent prayer to himself. It was best to not send them back in their current state as it would taint the family's memories of them.

Back in Dawla, the cycle of death was broken by new-borns making their presence known to the new world. Here, there was nothing to cease it. Day after day, death, death, death. Patrick was getting worn down by it all.

The bottle was his only comfort. He felt the stress and anxiety being washed away by the honey infused 'medicinal' nectar. Occasionally, there were trips to villages procuring supplies for the men. Among them were bottles of local brandy, which Patrick took a fancy to.

He was well known back home for holding his liquor so not one member of staff knew that he was drunk on duty.

He understood that he had to be careful. He just needed a little something to help him get through the day. A bit of Dutch courage. It was a way to block memories of men dying, screaming, rotting like carrion.

This morning, one nurse saw him drinking half a bottle of honey brandy and mentioned it to the commanding officer. He understood Patrick's position but warned him that if he saw him drinking on duty again, he would be dishonourably discharged.

As the day went on, Patrick was dying for a drink. Nurses and doctors were still on duty, so he couldn't risk being seen. If he carried on going, he would be dead by 40. He had to find another way. Some staff turned to opium to deal with it, but he would never become one of them. So stoned, they could barely walk, shaking and shivering when the C.O forced them to go cold turkey. It didn't appeal to Patrick at all.

He would get an early night. The mattress wasn't comfortable, but he had to make do. Closing the drawer with the brandy in it, he vowed to never fall into its wicked temptation again. Making his way through the camp to his quarters, he looked up at the stars, it was a clear night so he could see them clearly. Balls of gas dotted everywhere, a full moon. It was very beautiful.

Somehow, gazing into the depths of them made Patrick contented with his role in RAMC and happy that his mother would be with him every step of the way, even though she wasn't on this mortal plain anymore. Feeling uplifted, he continued his way to bed.

Attempts to make the tent more like home proved somewhat fruitful. A case full of old textbooks and novels was tucked away in the corner. A desk facing the left side proved helpful whenever Patrick wished to write letters. Clothes were strewn all over the ground sheet and the chair. He wasn't exactly tidy but then again, he wasn't messy either.

In the centre of the room was Patrick's bed. Mattress was hard and stiff, like him every time he went past a nurse. Pillow was full of goose feathers, which aided in him getting a decent night's sleep.

Collapsing on the bed, he snuggled up to the pillow and threw the blanket over him. As his eyes grew weary, he thought about a better coping mechanism to deal with his situation.

…

A deep sigh left his lips.

He was surprised that Smith was alive.

A grenade was thrown and Smith, showing courage to protect his fellow men covered the grenade with his body. A fellow officer discovered him, and he saw ribs near Smith. Clothes were soaked with blood, as the smell of iron was rife in the air.

The heart could be seen in the wound, all arteries and veins remained intact.

Patrick was worried as one rib punctured the lung, causing a sucking noise to emanate from the chest. He recommended a patch, along with a chest seal should be placed on the wound. Observations were placed in case Smith developed a tension pneumothorax which would be life threatening. Smith was 19, a Yorkshire lad who was tasting war life for the first time. A bit naive but he had a heart of gold.

Patrick prescribed him a sedative to ease the pain. His heart went out to the poor lad. All the soldiers he met had good lives ahead of them, but injuries sustained in battle would change their plans.

Although it was wrong to do so, he did chuckle when he saw the ones born with silver spoons in their mouth having no idea what to do as a real-life battle was different to their interpretation. They thought that war was a jolly good thing and that they would be back home in time for cream tea and scones. How wrong they were.

He recalled how one of them, Huntington-Smythe, ran like a schoolgirl when he saw someone bleeding profusely from their eye after a piece of shrapnel pierced the jelly orb. He was found later, having a panic attack and stated that he wanted his mummy.

Needless to say, he didn't last very long. He couldn't deal with the horrors and injuries of war, so he ran away. Of course, someone spotted him, chased after him and brought him before the court martial for cowardice charges. The outcome was that he was shot at dawn.

Patrick thought that it was uncalled for. After all, everyone develops fear in a situation they have never been exposed to before.

Working tirelessly at his desk, Patrick was gradually making his way through the medical reports for the wounded. It was arduous and tedious, but it had to be done. A cold cup of tea stood unnoticed by the brown eyed gaze. Eventually hazel gems focused their attention on it, so Patrick picked it up and drank from it. He didn't mind that it was chilled, it was still a liquid to quench his parched throat.

There were fewer female staff around the tent. Most of them went home as they were traumatised by the conditions of the camp and the soldiers. Patrick commended them. It wasn't easy for anyone to live in basic and harsh conditions and observing soldiers with severe injuries, such as gunshot wound to the face, grenade blast, legs blown off, to name a few. Even though most of medical cases were physical wounds, quite a few were mentally wounded.

Patrick empathised with them. After all, he had been in that situation himself. He noted that, during the past few weeks, something was wrong. After speaking with young Hallows, he saw a woman in 1920s dress walking through the battlefield, not fazed by anything. She turned to look at him, reverting to an old appearance. It was his grandmother, Ruby. She seemed so real, but it couldn't be her. She had been dead for 20 years.

Another time, he thought he heard the hustle and bustle of Liverpool Market. There were children screaming and laughing. He could hear it all so clearly. It was like he was right there, in the middle of it all.

He was in fear of his own mind, just like back in Dawla. He was scared about losing control and hurting his colleagues. The injuries he saw and treated made him develop a morbid sense of humour as a coping mechanism. With all death surrounding him, he had to try a see a lighter side or else he would succumb to the insane failings of his mind.

Most of the time, he succeeded. He coped with the death and devastation in a healthier way in something as boring as filling out medical reports or writing more music. He wrote a piece dedicated to Rose. It was a piano piece that he sent to her as she could also play it. She wrote to him, commenting on how talented he was and that his music was so beautiful and moving. She had an overwhelming love for it, that she asked for his permission to be played at her wedding. Patrick was delighted at the prospect, so he gave her his blessing.

As he was conversing with Rose through written language, he couldn't help but feel slightly jealous. A few years ago, this captivating woman with luscious crimson locks, emerald eyes and a seductive Irish lilt was his, to hold, to love and to cherish. Lying in bed some nights, he wanted to go straight to London, find Rose and stop her from marrying. He wanted her so much, it was painful for him to navigate through the world without her. He knew that it was the green - eyed monster talking. He had to let Rose go. One day, he hoped to find someone who loved and cared for him as much as Rose did. If that were to happen, he would be completely honest with her and would never hide his true feelings.

Blood was the only crimson he was seeing. It was everywhere and there was no escape from it. He was drowning in it. As he looked around, he detected a chill in the air. Shivers went across his body. He rubbed his arms to try and get heat to them.

One of the doctors noticed this and gave Patrick a confused look. He went over to him and stood in front of his desk.

" **Are you alright, sir?"**

" **No, I'm absolutely freezing. Aren't you?"**

" **No sir, It's a warm night."**

" **It can't be. I can see my breath turning into fog right before my eyes."**

Slowly backing away, the doctor was apprehensive of Patrick's mental state.

" **Why are you backing away for, Dr Adams?"**

" **I'm worried about your mind, sir."**

Adams noticed that Patrick's eyes were starting to look wild.

" **There's nothing wrong with my mind! Feel my hands."**

Adams walked cautiously to Patrick and grabbed one of his hands.

He gulped.

" **Well, Adams?"**

" **It's warm, sir."**

Patrick placed his hands to his face. They were ice -cold. But Adam said his hands were warm. Lifting his hands in front of his face, Patrick saw that they were a pale shade of blue.

" **Look at them! Adams, look at them, they're blue!"**

Adams didn't know what to say. He felt for Patrick. Being in an endless cycle of death while narrowly being missed by shells and artillery took its toll on everyone. It was a question of what will go first: the mind or body. For Patrick, it was clear which one had gone.

" **Adams, could you bring me a hot water bottle? I'll catch my death of cold."  
"You don't need one, sir. You're fine."**

Patrick stared at him. What was this fool talking about? He needed a hot water bottle. He wasn't fine at all. He was on the verge of freezing.

 _He must have made a mistake. My hands are ice cubes._

" **I said, get me a hot water bottle."**

" **With all due respect, sir. You're not well. The trauma of the war is taking its toll on you. It's alright, I'll take you to your quarters."**

Rage was boiling over in Patrick's blood. He was fine. Perfectly fine. This upstart thinks he know everything. This was insubordination, something that Patrick detested.

" **GET ME A WATER BOTTLE NOW!"**

Adams knew that he had to do something or else the situation would turn very violent very quickly. As Patrick was slowly moving towards him, he ran to the medicine cabinet to get a sedative.

" **ADAMS! I SHALL REPORT YOU FOR INSUBORDINATION!"**

Adams placed the needle in his pocket. Lunging at him, he tried to find a place to inject but Patrick was stronger than he looked. Fighting on the floor, Patrick was gaining the upper hand. He got Adams in a choke hold. Adam's left arm was free, so he reached into the pocket and grasped the needle tight.

Patrick saw this and bashed Adams's hand repeatedly to get him to drop.

 _No one is putting me to sleep! I'm capable of doing my job!_

Adams was losing consciousness, so he needed to act fast. With all his strength, he lifted his arm, plunging the needle into Patrick's neck. As effects of the sedative began to work, Adams could feel Patrick's grip loosening. Within a matter of minutes, Patrick was out cold on the floor.

Adams carried him back to his quarters. He had to report this to the superior officer to see about getting Patrick help. However, he wondered if Patrick was too far gone for it.


	14. Chapter 14

His eyes seemed to be fixated on the ceiling. He felt such a fool as he didn't realise the full extent of his mental instability. Lt. Colonel Hawkes confined him to his quarters until medical help arrived. He was trapped within the twisted, distorted cage of his mind. From what he had heard, Adams was alright, just a little shaken. Patrick had tried to prove that he was alright, that it was just a blip, but Lt. Colonel Hawkes said that attacking a fellow member of staff whilst delusional was not a blip.

Lt. Colonel Hawkes was an older gentleman of 40. He had seen enough death to last him a lifetime. He had been raised in an upper middle-class family. He lost his father on the Titanic as he was on a business trip to New York, leaving his mother a widow and him with no father figure in his life. Lady Hawkes never remarried, as she thought it would insult her husband's memory. She loved him with all her heart and she always will.

The Lt. Colonel was deeply troubled about Patrick. He had heard what happened to him in Dawla. Loss of a friend can deeply affect people, especially if they had a close bond. He knew medical staff were getting more overwhelmed without Major Turner. He was torn about what to do.

As he sat in his office, thinking about the options, he went to the filing cabinet and looked for Patrick's file. Reading through the records, he saw that Patrick cared about his patients and that he had brilliant statistics for someone his age. Even though he had suffered much throughout his career, he had never let those statistics go down. Hawkes wondered whether or not he should risk letting Patrick do his duty. He was aware that the medical staff needed him, but he couldn't face another incident like the one last night. He feared that, if Patrick lost his mind again, he could go even further than bashing someone's hand and cause them serious harm. But he had to think of the other staff who were under enough stress as it is.

He would personally be in the hospital tent to make sure that Patrick didn't go off on one. Before signing up, he worked in a psychiatric hospital dealing with violent patients, so he knew what the procedures were if Patrick ever got to that stage.

A decision was made, and he would inform Patrick immediately. He just hoped that he wasn't wrong about this as the repercussions would be very severe.

….

" **I don't understand, sir."**

Patrick was unsure of the Lt. Colonel's reasoning for wanting him to go back to work. Surely, he knew the potential risks.

" **It's like this, Turner. You are the backbone of the medical staff. If you fall, they do too."**

Lt. Colonel Hawkes sat by Patrick's desk while Patrick laid on the bed. Patrick knew that he was important, but he didn't think he was that important. It showed how much respect other medical staff had for him.

" **I understand the potential consequences of my decision, but it appears that I have no choice."**

To him, Patrick looked normal, like there was nothing wrong with him. But he knew that his mind was breaking. He didn't want to push Patrick to the extent where he had a psychotic breakdown. One little thing could tip Patrick over the edge, so he had to tread carefully.

" **I'm going to allow you to go back to work but, you will be doing light duties and I will be there in case anything happens. Is that understood?"**

" **Yes, sir."**

Patrick understood perfectly. Knowing that Lt. Colonel Hawkes wouldn't have made the decision lightly, he was grateful that he was allowing him a chance to do what he loved. He would have to try and keep himself together.

" **Thank you, sir, I'll try."**

" **I know things haven't been easy for you over the last few years. The war is nearly over. You can go back home and get proper treatment, OK?"**

" **Yes, sir."**

" **Good lad. Now, let's tend to the patients."**

Patrick leapt out of bed and proceeded to put his doctor's coat. He overflowed with so much enthusiasm that Lt. Colonel could see it radiating off him. He was glad that Patrick seemed to be like his old self again. He was still a little fragile, but he looked well. As Patrick walked outside the tent to make his way to the hospital, Hawkes decided to make a phone call before joining him.

…..

For the first half of the shift, Patrick was doing alright. He was a little frustrated that he couldn't do anything more, but he was thankful for small mercies. It made the Lt. Colonel smile that Patrick's passion for his work and caring for patients didn't dwindle.

Lt. Colonel Hawkes was tucked in the corner of the tent so that he didn't distract Patrick from what he was doing. He kept a watchful eye on him for anything that would suggest a psychotic breakdown.

So far, so good.

Patrick was in charge of doing primary assessments of the patients, leaving other personnel to take charge of overall treatment. There was plenty of patients, so he wasn't bored.

A young man, around 23, was waiting to be seen. He hailed from the Emerald Isle, so he had a fighting spirit. A victim of a blast injury, his left arm was torn away, leaving a bloodied mess on his uniform and tissues hanging from the stump left behind. He needed to have surgery to seal up the wound and therapy to help him recover from trauma.

He was an artist before signing up. Luckily, he drew with his right arm, so his work wouldn't be affected. Like Patrick, he was getting tired of the death around him. He just wanted this ghastly war to end. His appearance was quite dishevelled. Chocolate brown hair looking unkempt, stubble forming around his face.

Patrick walked up to the lad but stopped for a brief moment.

 _It can't be..._

 _Timmy?_

Lt. Colonel Hawkes got up from the chair, moving a little closer to the scene. He sensed that something was wrong.

" **Timmy?"**

The lad didn't know who Patrick was on about, as his name wasn't Timmy, it was Christian. Patrick came closer to the bed. Christian could see mania in his eyes. It made him feel a tad uncomfortable.

" **Don't you remember me, Timmy? We were in the queue for signing up together."**

Christian glanced at the Lt. Col. This was not looking good. Lt. Colonel. Hawkes edged a little closer but taking great care not to appear in Patrick's line of sight.

A noise alerted the Lt. Colonel, diverting his gaze to the entrance of the tent. They were here, waiting patiently. He wished he didn't have to go to this, but it was for the safety of the staff.

" **You're very quiet, Timmy. I'm here to see if your leg has healed. I had a sneaking suspicion that you were making your injuries worse. By what method, I don't know. It's not going to make your injuries better, is it?"**

Christian shook his head. He didn't know what else to do. Patrick was starting to creep him out.

 _Who the hell is Timmy?_

He suspected that his appearance was similar to this Timmy, hence why Patrick was confused. But Christian had a feeling that Patrick was more than confused. The mania in his eyes was another sign.

Patrick pulled back the blanket and, looking at Christian's legs, surprised at the healing rate on his injuries.

" **Timmy, this is unbelievable. Your legs have healed remarkably well. I'm impressed."**

" **Actually sir, my stump is bleeding. I lost my arm."**

" **Your arm?!**

Patrick saw the stump where Christian's arm used to be. The sleeve of his uniform was stained with blood.

" **Ah yes. Don't worry, Timmy. I'll sort it. I'll book you in theatre this afternoon."**

Alarm bells were ringing in Lt. Colonel Hawke's ears. Patrick was supposed to be doing light duties. He would bide his time to see where it would lead.

" **Thank you."**

" **You're welcome. There's no need to worry. You'll be in my capable hands."**

Both Christian and Lt. Colonel Hawkes gave puzzled looks at Patrick.

" **How do you mean, sir?"**

" **I'll be doing your surgery, Timmy. I will do my utmost best to save you this time."**

Lt. Colonel Hawkes was stunned.

 _Patrick, you fool._

He dreaded to think what Patrick would do in surgery in his present mental state. He had to stop him.

Shaking underneath the blankets, Christian was scared about Patrick's words.

 _What did he mean by "this time"?_

Christian was deeply afraid. This man, who he had never seen before, is calling him by another name, giving him weird looks and wants to do his surgery when his superior is staring at him as if to say no.

" **Umm, is there another doctor I can speak to?"**

Staring blankly at Christian, Patrick tilted his head slightly, giving Christian the impression that he had offended him.

" **What are you trying to say, Timmy?"**

Christian detected a hint of menace in Patrick's voice. He had to keep him calm.

" **Nothing at all, sir. It's just that you don't seem to be in a good place at the minute."**

Patrick stepped back a little. Timmy was right. He wasn't in a good place. He would do his best to save him.

Why would he want a new doctor? Patrick was capable to treat him. No harm would come to him. He would be perfectly safe.

Surely Timmy wouldn't have forgotten their friendship. Admittedly, he hadn't seen him since Dawla when he was transferred to another hospital.

" **Alright, Timmy. I'll get you another doctor."**

Christian smiled at Patrick, who reciprocated the gesture. Patrick noted that the gauze on "Timmy"'s arm should be changed every 4 hours. As he would be waiting a long time, Christian reached for his sketchbook in his satchel. He thought about drawing a forest clearing, with a gushing waterfall in the middle. He would give it to his girl back home. He loved her to bits. Before he left, she said that, if he was injured, she would stick by him, no matter what. He always kept a photo of her in his quarters and kissed it every morning to bring him luck.

As he got his pencils out, Patrick rushed to him and took the pencils off him.

" **No. You can't have them!"**

" **But they're my pencils."**

Patrick gazed upon the supposed pencils. They were knives. Terror become prominent in Patrick's eyes.

 _No, not again. I won't let him._

Christian couldn't understand. They were sketching and colour pencils. He was a little annoyed that Patrick snatched them off him. But, judging by the terror-possessed eyes, Christian was concerned about the state of mind.

Patrick began to shake, clutching the pencils tight to his chest. He moved back slowly.

" **No, I won't let you kill yourself again, Timmy. I WON'T!**

His eyes began to fill with tears. He sobbed gently as Lt. Colonel Hawkes stepped further into the situation. The tears fell on top of the pencil case and ran off onto Patrick's sleeves.

" **I don't want to lose you again, Timmy."**

Lt. Colonel Hawkes walked towards Patrick. It was clear to him that Patrick was very unwell.

As Patrick saw the Lt. Col coming towards him, he picked up a pencil and pointed it towards him.

" **YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME!"**

In Patrick's mind, Lt. Colonel Hawkes's face was unrecognisable. His features were hardly a face. Disfigured beyond recognition. Its frightened Patrick to death. His fight or flight response was kicking in.

" **Patrick, my lad. Put the pencil down. It's alright."**

 _It's not a fucking pencil, it's a knife!_

" **GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU MONSTER FROM HELL!"**

The Lt. Colonel could see that Patrick was beyond reason. He indicated to them outside the tent to come in slowly. One was holding a straitjacket, the other, a sedative.

Patrick saw the change in the Lt. Colonel's face. His entire appearance changed to reflect that of an orderly. As the Lt. Colonel reached out his empty hand to prompt Patrick into giving him the case, Patrick noted that he had a leucotome in his hand. That was a bad omen. The leucotome was a deadly instrument that can damage the frontal lobe of the brain, leaving its victims like vegetables.

Patrick moved closer to Christian, frightening the poor lad.

" **If you think you're going to make Timmy a vegetable again, you are very much mistaken."**

Patrick placed his arm around Christian, bringing him close to his chest.

" **Patrick, can't you see that you're scaring the poor boy?!"**

Turning towards Christian, Patrick saw that his eyes were filled with fear. A rustle alerted Patrick to the presence of the two men.

" **Who are they? Why are they holding a straitjacket?!"**

 _Uh oh._

Christian realised that he could get through to Patrick, to help him stop this madness. He knew exactly what would happen to him and he felt for him.

" **Patrick?"**

" **Yes, Timmy?"**

" **They're here to help you. Your mind is broken due to the stress and trauma you've faced. They'll help you get better."**

" **No. No, I'm not going. They hurt my grandfather, I'm not going. What's that ringing noise in my head? Why are they staring me like that?! They're gonna make me a vegetable. I WON'T GO! I'M PERFECTLY SANE!"**

With that, Patrick flew towards Lt. Colonel Hawkes and placed the pencil to his neck.

" **Call them off."**

Patrick whispered into the Lt. Colonel's ears. He wasn't in the mood to play games.

Patrick pressed the cold pencil to the throat.

" **Call them off now, or I'll slice your neck!"**

Deciding to act, in a matter of seconds, Lt. Colonel Hawkes lifted up his elbow and hit Patrick in the nose, causing him to drop the pencil. As Patrick was trying to contain the river of blood coming out his nose, the Lt. Col restrained him. Arms were flailing, curse words being said, punching, kicking, screaming. One of the men rushed to Patrick and injected the sedative into his neck.

For Patrick, he felt very drowsy, the room was spinning. Collapsing on the floor, he reached to Christian.

" **I'm glad you're ok, Timmy."**

Tiredness overcame Patrick's resilience. Within seconds, he was out cold. The men placed Patrick into a straitjacket, as they had no idea what his mood would be when he woke up. Seeing Patrick being carried on a stretcher, Lt. Colonel Hawkes poured him and Christian a glass of brandy. He passed him the tumbler and sat beside him.

" **Are you alright, lad?"**

" **Yes, sir. Just shaken."**

They reflected on the fact that the situation could have turned very quickly. They were thankful that they were alive.

Staring at the empty glass, Christian was worried about what would happen to Patrick.

" **Where are they taking him, sir?"**

Lt. Colonel Hawkes downed the last of his brandy and stared into the distance. Patrick gave him no option. He became increasingly volatile and could have put lives at risk. He prayed that, where they were taking Patrick, he would receive the best possible care.

" **There is a psychiatric hospital back in Blighty. Northfield, it's called. One of the best, so I've heard. He will be alright there, lad."**

" **That's good."**

" **Anyway, get some rest. You've been through a lot today."**

Christian laid back into the bed, just as a doctor walked up to him to discuss surgery. The Lt. Colonel went outside and looked to the stars. Reaching down into his shirt, he pulled out a rosary, as his family were Catholics. He prayed to Maria to grant Patrick mercy and to help him overcome his mental sickness. Praying that she will watch over him, to grant him and his family strength in this troublesome time.


	15. Chapter 15

_Why am I so sleepy?_

 _There's that smell again._

 _Of iron_

 _Of blood_

 _But where is it coming from?_

 _I'm not bleeding._

 _Am I?_

 _No, it wouldn't be me._

 _I would have felt something being wet._

 _My eyes feel like …. weights._

 _Best open them._

 _Where am I?_

 _The room is so bare._

 _I am quite thirsty._

 _Ah, there's water on the table._

 _I'll hoist myself up with my hands._

 _I feel a little constricted._

 _Wait a minute._

 _Why can't I move my arms?_

 _My arms..._

 _I can't move them!_

 _Why?!_

 _Can't ...breathe._

 _So hot._

 _I feel suffocated_

 _So warm_

 _I don't mind being warm, just not in these circumstances_

 _AAAAH!_

 _AAAH!_

 _My leg._

 _It's cramping_

 _Aaah!_

 _Why does it hurt so much?_

 _Need to move toes to ease the pain._

 _Ah, that's better._

 _Well, if I can't move, I'll just stare at the ceiling._

 _The colour scheme isn't exactly my personal preference. The walls...look...padded._

 _Where's Mum? I want my mum!_

 _Where is she?_

 _Timmy?_

 _Are you there, Timmy?_

 _Someone get me out of here!_

 _Window!_

 _Why aren't I getting closer to it?_

 _Bugger._

 _I'm chained to the wall._

 _Mummy._

 _Where is she?_

 _That bastard._

 _He injected something into me to make me sleepy._

 _That fucker._

 _Thinking that I'm not capable of being a doctor._

 _Bastard._

" **YOU BASTARDS. LET ME THE FUCK OUT!"**

 _Why is there blood coming down the walls?_

 _It's coming for me!_

 _There's no way out!_

 _HELP!_

 _HELP!_

 _MUMMY!_

 _TIMMY!_

 _WHERE ARE YOU?_

 _Please._

 _Don't leave me alone._

 _Please._

….

Continuous babble rang through the air of the reception. There was bright colours and flowers. It looked like a happy place to be in. He couldn't keep still. He paced up and down the corridor, he sat down, he stood up. Consumed with worry, he went outside to smoke his pipe. He came down the second he finished work. He couldn't believe it when the hospital called him to say his son was here but, then again, it was to be expected, considering what happened.

Patrick's superior told him all about the incident. He was saddened to hear how his son had got into such a state. Arthur looked at the clouds and hoped that Cecily was watching over their beloved boy. The receptionist told him that Patrick was placed temporarily in a ward, where violent patients are housed. His treatment would be group therapy with other soldiers, in order to accept and overcome what had happened to him. Arthur was so relieved that he was sent to Northfield. It was rated one of the best hospitals for helping people with mental health issues. Instead of locking them away and experimenting on them like in some places, Northfield focuses on the patients to aid them into becoming better individuals. There was lush green gardens, where the patients could walk around or have time to themselves. There were games rooms, encouraging patients to interact with others and to share experiences. Arthur was certain that Patrick will receive the best care, once he stopped shouting, kicking and swearing at the doctors.

For the first few weeks, Patrick was on antipsychotic medication as his delusions were very vivid, along with his increasing volatility. The receptionist said that Patrick was stable, for the moment, and that Arthur could see him. Arthur was excited but, at the same time, apprehensive as he didn't know what mood Patrick was in.

Hearing his name being called, Arthur followed the nurse down the corridor. The paintings adorned on the wall looked spectacular, as if they were done professionally. She told him that they were done by patients in the art therapy group, some of which had never painted before. He was astounded that such troubled people could produce such gorgeous artwork.

They turned into a corridor that had a bland colour scheme, where Arthur assumed that this was where Patrick was. The door made him concerned, for they looked like prison doors, formed from iron and corrugated steel. There was a sliding peephole that nurses used to check to see if patients were alright. According to hospital policy, violent patients were detained here for as long as they needed to, until they showed some stability. Arthur heard that there was a patient who had been abused by her parents so severely that she had a few mental disorders, such as manic depression, hysterical neurosis, and severe psychosis. Due to the nature and severity of her mental health, she was deemed too unstable to ever be released. Arthur had treated her in the past, but he wasn't aware of her mental illness as her parents made excuses for her.

He was aware of her father being lecherous towards her, as he was a hard drug user. Her mother was quite the zealot, believing that she was doing God's work by punishing her daughter for her perceived wickedness, even though the girl did nothing wrong. His heart went out to the poor girl.

Eventually, they came to where Patrick was. Nurse Barrington, (as Arthur had found out her name), slid open the peephole and observed Patrick sitting on the bed with his legs crossed, rocking back and forth, mumbling to himself. Hair was like he stuck his finger through a plug socket. It was all over the place. Stubble was forming around his mouth and chin, making him look very rugged and attractive.

Taking out the key for the door, Nurse Barrington inserted it firmly into the lock and turned it. The iron door opened with a huge creaking noise.

Shocked of how his son had changed and the fact they put him in a straitjacket, Arthur cried softly as it was starting to become too much. His son wouldn't be the same man he was before. It was comforting that he came home alive, unlike most of the lads.

Beside him on the wall was a button. Nurse Barrington told him that, if Patrick became violent, he would press it and orderlies would let him out and sedate Patrick. As the nurse left, Arthur walked towards Patrick and sat beside on the bed, like he used to do when Patrick was a child.

" **Hello, son."**

Patrick's eyes were focused on the wall opposite him. No emotion was on his face. It was if the joy and energy was sucked out of him, leaving a shell of who he once was. Struggling to find the words to say, Arthur remained silent. What could he say? He couldn't tell him that everything will be alright when it wasn't. An hour passed and there was still no response from Patrick.

" **Don't worry, son. You're in the best place possible and the staff will do everything to help you."**

Arthur understood the severity of Patrick's trauma. He treated veterans just like him. Some were withdrawn and completely shut down, similar to Patrick, and others ranted, raved, bashed their heads against the wall and behaved erratically.

Arthur wanted Patrick to open up about his experiences, but his body was devoid of responses. He wrapped his arms around Patrick and pulled him into his chest. Rubbing his hand against Patrick's shoulder, he was forcing himself not to cry. Being placed in that situation was very emotional, especially if it happened to one of your own.

As he stroked Patrick's hair, he heard muffled cries coming from him. Arthur was doing his utmost best to comfort him, taking on a maternal role as his mother wasn't here. It was a lovely moment between them. Arthur didn't want to lose his son, as he was the only physical connection to his late wife.

A rapting on the door disturbed them. It was time for him to leave. He pulled himself away from Patrick, who smiled at him. For a brief moment, Arthur thought Patrick was his old self again. He knew that it would take time for Patrick to stabilise.

He got up from the bed and made his way to the door.

" **Dad?"**

Arthur sharply turned, to see Patrick looking at him, with tears in his eyes.

" **Yes, son?"**

" **I love you."**

Emotion finally got the better of him and tears streamed down his face.

" **I love you too, son."**

Arthur smiled back at Patrick, and left, leaving him to his thoughts. He hoped that Patrick will be his normal self again.

…

Months passed, and Patrick had improved massively. He was in his own room, with light coming through the windows, his own bathroom and a colourful wall scheme. He felt that things were looking up. Of course, he knew that he will never be right but his outlook on life changed for the better. There were a few setbacks, but they were to be expected. He made a few friends with the other patients. The group therapy was a huge help to his recovery. The staff also allowed patients to join other therapy classes, such as art, drawing and music. Patrick was a frequent visitor to the music and drawing classes.

His father visited him when he could get time off work. He told Patrick that everyone sent their regards and told about the interesting cases on Male Surgical. He told him of the patient who had his fruits burnt with hot oil as his wife caught him cheating with his secretary. Even though it wasn't amusing for the patient, both Patrick and Arthur couldn't help but laugh at the man's predicament. Arthur was overjoyed that Patrick was on the right track.

One day, Patrick was having a walk through the gardens where he saw the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was one of the nurses on shift. She had her caramel brown locks in a updo, covered by a nurse's hat. The uniform was generously fitted around his hourglass figure. He had never seen her on the wards, so he presumed she was new. He would happily show her around the wards. However, he didn't know whether she was taken so he would bide his time for now.

" **Mr Turner?"**

One of the nurses was running towards him, being careful not to trip.

" **Yes?"**

Once the nurse had caught up to him, she was very out of breath. Once she could breathe again, she gave Patrick full eye contact.

" **There's a visitor for you."**

 _A visitor?_

 _Dad didn't ring to say that he was coming today._

" **OK. Thank you."**

Patrick followed the nurse to the waiting area where he saw a familiar face. He had grown a lot, but Patrick still recognised him.

" **Alfie."**

Alfie came and shook Patrick by the hand. Time was good to him. He was older and wiser but still retained his charm. He had cast aside the immaturity of his youth and had grown into a handsome man.

" **How are you, Patrick?"**

Alfie had heard about Patrick from the nurses in the hospital while he was visiting his cousin. Of course he also had his fair share of trauma. He had, with him, a walking stick as he suffered permanent nerve damage after his leg was crushed by falling debris. He had been laid off work to have physiotherapy but, after a while, his leg had recovered to full strength. Sometimes the pain was unbearable, so the doctor gave him strong painkillers. However, Alfie had started to become addicted to them.

" **I'm good as I can be. Could be worse**. **Anyway, I'm in a much better place than I was before."**

" **That's great. I was in the same place as you a few months ago. With my leg and other things."**

A nurse, (Grouchy old bat, as Patrick called her), came around with tea and biscuits. She had a face on her like she was swallowed a wasp or sat on a bunch of nettles. Patrick smiled at her every time she came around, but it wasn't denting her armour. Patrick suspected that she never had a good shag in years or maybe she did but was very clever at hiding it. She had a wedding ring, so she was married. He felt sorry for her husband.

Patrick asked for a cup of tea and Alfie a cup of coffee. She gave them a plate of digestives and custards then went on her merry way, leaving Patrick and Alfie in a fit of giggles as Patrick shared his suspicions.

" **So what brings you here to Britain, Alfie? I thought you were in France."**

" **I was, but the pain in my leg was getting in the way of work so they sent me back. I work at a hospital in London now. It's nice to be home."**

 **"It is. To see lush green fields and flowers again."**

" **Yeah, you wouldn't believe that there is a war going on across the seas, would you?"**

It was good for Patrick to have a catch up with Alfie, to reminisce about their time in Altcar and the good times before the war got in the way.

After what seemed to them like minutes, the bell rang to indicate the end of visiting hours. Alfie placed his cup on the table and stood up. His appearance reflected his maturity. His blond hair was slicked back by the usual Brylcreem, he was wearing a black suit with a blue overcoat and high polished brown brogues.

" **I best be off now, Pat. Got to get home to Alex."**

" **Alex?"**

" **My other half."**

He leant down to whisper to Patrick.

" **People think that we're housemates so, in public, we act like we're mates. Only behind doors, we get intimate, like."**

" **Ah, that's a very good plan. Just make sure that no one see you."**

" **Don't worry, we keep the curtains closed."**

Alfie bid Patrick farewell and went off along with the other visitors. Patrick noticed that the brunette he saw before was standing by the reception desk. He felt a beating in his pants and hot blood rushing through his veins. Now that she was much closer, he could admire her in all her glory.

She was a stunner. He was trying to look at her hand to see if she was taken. As she lifted her hand up, there was no wedding or engagement ring. She was free. This made Patrick happier. She noticed him observing her, making her blush. It stoked the fire in his organs. She had a peachy arse from the side view. He wouldn't go in head on. He would behave like a gentleman towards her.

He got up from the seat and walked slowly to her, so not to scare her. He leant on the desk to show Nurse that he was interested in her. She smiled, making Patrick to want her more. Her smile could light up a thousand rooms.

" **Hello."**

Nurse giggled. It was clear to Patrick that she never had been the object of attention before.

" **Hello."**

Her face was beetroot red. She had to keep it professional as he was a patient but there was nothing wrong in conversing with him.

" **I haven't seen you here before."**

" **No, I started here this morning. It's quite a change compared to the last place I worked."**

" **Oh, where was that?"**

" **Bedlam. I left after a week. The way doctors treated patients was inhumane and cruel. I was glad to see the back of it."**

Warmth started to flow through the bulge in his trousers. Patrick hoped that it wouldn't become apparent to the nurse how her beauty was stirring him. Her eyes were a lovely pale shade of blue, matching her nurse's outfit.

" **What is your name?"**

" **Parker. Nurse Parker."**

" **I meant your first name."**

Nurse Parker wasn't sure about the man's request. She had only just met him. However, he did seem genuine enough and didn't look the type to cause trouble.

" **It's Marianne."**

" **What a gorgeous name."**

" **Thank you."**

Patrick took Marianne's hand and kissed it, causing her to blush even more.

" **It's lovely to meet you, Marianne. I'm Patrick."**

" **It's a pleasure to meet you, Patrick."**

Marianne heard her name being called. It was Matron wanting help to distribute the medication.

" **I have to go."**

" **It's alright. I understand. I hope to see you again."**

" **You too."**

As Marianne rushed off towards Matron, Patrick was left in awe. She was an amazing woman. So kind, so caring. He would love to know her more but, of course he had to wait until he was discharged as relationships between staff and patients were highly frowned upon. There was something about her that he absolutely adored. It didn't occur to him at the time, but Marianne would become a central part in his life and he would be the happiest man in the world.


End file.
